Lost
by Danae3
Summary: Year 5 AU CompleteHarry is missing. Ron and Hermione are dealing. Snape thinks the Dursleys know more than they let on. What happens when Harry is found? WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH
1. Chapter 1

            The night is for sleeping, dreaming.  It cleanses the body and the mind of the filth left by an unforgiving life, for isn't all life unforgiving?  What chance have we to mend what is broken but with time?  And who is to say if mending is possible?  Ah, but to sleep, to dream.  To forget.  To forget all the horrible things that happen to us everyday is a blessing, for that is how we move forward.  The trouble is, some of us have much more to forget than others.  Some of us live entire lifetimes in moments.  Others live only moments in entire lifetimes.  And then there are a few… a very few…

            Harry Potter sat on top of his desk, unable to sleep, staring out the heavily barred window of his bedroom at number 4 Privet Drive.  It was raining outside.  Heavy, pounding rain that jarred the bones and chilled the soul.  He should know.  He had stood outside in the rain for nearly three quarters of an hour waiting for his Uncle Vernon to pick him up from King's Crossing, drawing cross looks from Muggles who couldn't understand why a kid would be so thickheaded as to stand out in such heavy weather without reason.  But Harry had had reason.  Good reason.  Vernon Dursley.

            His arm was still sore from being wrenched out of the car, his wrist turned in nearly the opposite direction as he was dragged into the house and up the stairs, his feet never quite catching the steps to relieve his twisted arm of his weight. He had been thrown unceremoniously into his bedroom before a padlock was clicked into place.  Harry sat now, cradling his arm in his lap as it swelled and bruised from its rough handling.

            'At least I'm not in the cupboard,' he thought, pressing his forehead against the cool glass and watching raindrops race down the panes.  Lightening slashed through the sky, throwing an eerie light through his sparse bedroom.

            _Kill the spare._

            Harry squeezed his eyes shut at the vague memory of pain shooting through his scar.  A low rumble of thunder permeated his body and his breath caught in his throat.

            Cedric Diggory, the Hogwarts Champion, was gone.  Murdered.  

            _Kill the spare._

            He wasn't even a person. Just a spare body that had come through with the portkey.  He wasn't the Boy Who Lived, and he wouldn't live.  It wasn't he whom Voldemort wanted, so he was killed.

            Twisted bloody irony.

            _We'll take it at the same time.  It's still a Hogwarts victory.  _

We lost.  We all lost.  Both of us.  All of us.  But Cedric-

            _Harry stared into Cedric's face, at his open gray eyes, blank and expressionless, his half open mouth, which looked slightly surprised._

He squeezed his eyes shut again.

            Take my body back, will you?  Take my body back to my parents… 

            Harry buried his face in his left arm and allowed his first tears to fall since the incident.  His first tears, far away from Hogwarts and Dumbledore.  Far away from Ron and Hermione.  All alone in the little bedroom at the top of the stairs at number 4 Privet Drive, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, cried.


	2. Chapter 2

            It is a horrible ordeal to awaken to pain, for in those vast seconds in which the mind returns from its dream trance, the pain overrides all other sensations.  Suddenly, the most serene dreams take a dreadful turn, adjusting the body to the nightmare to which it will wake.  We do not drift.  We fall.  And the body jerks to wakefulness to avoid the hard realization that it will die.

            Harry awoke in such a state, falling helplessly through an airy abyss before landing with a jolt upon his bed.  His eyes whipped open, and for a moment, he wondered if he was still dreaming.  He reached for his glasses, but gasped at the pain shooting through his arm.  He was most certainly awake now. 

            The boy sat up, cradling his right arm with his left, and turned sideways so he could reach his glasses.  Before he even slipped them on, he knew what he would see.  

            His forearm was swollen.  Not much, but enough to be painful.  It was his wrist and hand that worried him.  The wrist was swollen to twice its original size and had turned a grayish-purple over night.  His hand and fingers were also swollen enough that he could not make a fist, could barely bend his fingers.  His pinkie and ring finger were a deep purple.

            Gingerly, Harry touched the swollen areas.  He could feel nothing but pain, which seemed to shoot up his entire arm.  A gasp escaped his throat before he bit hard on his bottom lip to keep from crying out.  Without any magical provisions to help him, he'd have to fix it the Muggle way.  He slipped from his bed and stole downstairs to get some ice for his hand.

            Unfortunately, the Dursley's were already gathered in the kitchen.  He walked past them toward the icebox, praying none would care to take notice of him. 

            "What do you think you're doing?" he heard as he opened the freezer door.  Uncle Vernon stared hard at him over the top of the newspaper.

            "I- My wrist is swollen.  I was getting some ice."

            "And what were you doing when you _hurt_ your wrist?" Dudley asked innocently.

            Harry stared daggers at Dudley, then looked pointedly at his uncle.

            "I hurt it getting out of the car yesterday," he muttered through clenched teeth.

            Aunt Petunia grabbed his swollen hand roughly, wrenching a cry from Harry, and glanced at the arm.

            "Stop sniveling.  It's not that bad."  She placed the spatula in his left hand.  "Finish stirring the eggs.  And mind you, don't let them burn."  She shuffled over to Dudley and wrapped her arms around his round shoulders.  "Today is Dudleykin's first day back home, and I want to make it extra special."  Dudley smiled angelically up at his mother, then sneered at Harry.

            Harry sighed and turned toward the eggs.  He couldn't grip the spatula with his right hand (it hurt enough without anything touching it), so he had to stir with his left.  He moved the eggs awkwardly around the pan, spattering them on the stovetop more than once, and surreptitiously wiping at them with a nearby hand-towel.  Unable to life the pan and serve the eggs, he retrieved the plates from the table, sat them on the counter, and shoveled the food onto them.  It was in returning them to the table, one by one, that the morning took a turn for the worse.

            As Harry lifted Dudley's overfilled plate to the table, his cousin suddenly kicked his chair out, hitting Harry's swollen arm, which he had kept close to his chest.  Harry screamed, dropping the plate onto the table and clutching his injured arm.  The plate hit the edge of the table, and broke on the floor, scattering bits of egg and bacon across the clean tile.

            "Look what you've done, you idiot!" Uncle Vernon screamed, cuffing Harry on the base of the head hard enough to knock his glasses off.  Harry stood gasping and blinking, trying to blink away the spots that danced before his eyes.

            "My glasses," he gasped, scanning the floor for their outline.  

            _CRACK!      _

            "Here they are, _Harry_," Dudley announced, dropping the twisted frame and a lens into his hands.  Harry lifted them to his face, but they wouldn't even stay on.  The hairs on the back of his neck rose as the fury set in.

            "You broke my glasses!" Harry yelled at his obese cousin.  "You broke them on purpose!"

            "Don't you yell at Dudley!" Uncle Vernon bellowed.

            "You fat cow!" Harry continued, unable to stop the words that erupted from his mouth.  "You fat muggle-brained –"  The vase on the table shattered.

            "HARRY!"

            "Ugly git of a-"  

            "THAT'S ENOUGH!" Vernon roared, hitting Harry hard on the side of the head.  Harry's head hit the table as he went down.  The boy slid across the floor, his ears ringing, his face burning.  When he turned and looked up, he saw the crimson blob of Uncle Vernon's face descending on him.  He grabbed the boy by his collar and dragged him out of the room, snarling at Petunia and Dudley to stay where they were.

            Harry struggled against his uncle's grip, fighting to breathe despite the fabric of his shirt tearing into his throat.  Vernon only released him when they were back in Harry's room.  He shut the door behind him, then turned to face his nephew, who was lying in a pile on the floor, gasping for breath and rubbing at his throat.

            "How dare you threaten my family," Vernon said, in a terrifyingly calm voice.  "After all I've done for you since your parents died- taken you in, fed you, clothed you.  And how do you repay me?  By threatening my own son!"

            "I didn't threaten him!" Harry yelled.

            "So now you're calling me a liar, eh?"

            "No, sir."  Harry pushed himself away from Vernon with his legs until his back slid up against the bed.  It wasn't far enough.  Vernon's massive paw wrapped itself around Harry's throat, holding it just tight enough to make breathing difficult, but without actually cutting off the airflow.  His large face was a few inches from Harry's.

            "I could squeeze right now and end your miserable little life."

            "And a great many wizards would hunt you down to answer for that," Harry replied, trying to restrain the fear from creeping into his voice.

            "Why?  Because you're Harry bloody Potter?"  The hand tightened.

            "No.  Because you'd be a murderer."  The hand loosened.  Harry breathed deep, trying to replenish the oxygen in his lungs, and fell over coughing.  He buried his face in the crook of his left arm as his body convulsed in its attempts to draw more air.  

            "You think you're better than us, don't you?" Vernon continued.  "Because you're a little freak who waves around a stick and makes things happen.  You think you can do anything you like while you're in this house."  He brought the heel of his shoe down hard on Harry's right hand, throwing all of his weight behind it.  "You can't do magic if you can't hold a wand!"

            Harry didn't hear the last exclamation.  His brain was filled with the white flashes of tormentuous pain.

            "Stand up, boy!" his uncle roared.  Even had he wanted to, Harry could not move.  Vernon landed a swift kick to Harry's ribs.  "I said stand up!"  He landed another swift kick in Harry's ribs, then stomped down heavily on the boy's lower back.  "Get up, boy!"  He grabbed the back of Harry's shirt and dragged him to his feet.  Harry stumbled backward, unable to support himself on his own legs.  

Thoughts were unclear.  Hands sought anything solid to hold him.  His rubbery legs carried him a step toward the door before Vernon's fist collided with his face.  Harry fell to the floor again, coughing hard and spitting the blood from his mouth. He was drowning.    

"You want to run away again?"  Was he drowning?  The sound seemed to be traveling over a great distance.  Harry tried to push himself up, to face his attacker- his uncle.  The shadow loomed over him.  "You want to be on your own?  Be my guest.  This time, don't come back!"  He grabbed the back of Harry's shirt and carried him out of the room and down the hallway.  Pausing at the top of the stairs, he addressed the boy for the last time.  "Get out of my house!" he roared, shoving him off the top step of the long flight of stairs.

            Harry felt weightless for just a moment, before he heard a woman screaming.  He thought it was his mother for a short instant.  Then his body turned in midair and he saw the stairs rushing up at him, and he thought no more.

                __


	3. Chapter 3

So sorry this one took so long.  For some reason, ff.net wouldn't let me upload it.  I'd upload it, then try and add it to the story, and it was gone.  Augh!  Enough about my problems.  Let's talk about Harry's.

*  *  *

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his large oak desk in the central tower of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, looking over the latest correspondence with trustworthy witches and wizards from all over Britain.  The Dark Lord was newly risen, and he had no time to waste in calling in the old guard.  His hand disappeared into the folds of his robes and emerged with a small gold pocket watch.  His eyes glanced down.  Severus should be joining him any moment to report any developments in the Death Eaters.  Wearily, he laid his quill aside, removed his glasses, and rubbed at his tired blue eyes.

            Suddenly, a green flame roared up in his fireplace.  He replaced his glasses and turned to face the head of an elderly woman floating within the flame.

            "Good afternoon, Arabella.  How are things in Little Whinging?"

            "Not good," the head answered, shaking slowly.  "I fear something's happened to Harry."  These words were followed by a knock at the door and Severus Snape entering the room.  He was dressed entirely in black, despite the warm temperatures outside.  He stopped when he noticed Arabella Figg's head floating in the fireplace.

            "Would you like me to come back another time?" he asked.

            "No, Severus.  You're timing is perfect."  He turned back to the fireplace.  "Arabella, what has happened to Harry?"

            "I don't know, Albus, but I haven't seen the boy in several days.  I asked Petunia Dursley about him, but she is reluctant to speak about him.  And this morning, I walked by their house on my daily stroll, and his trunk was out by the trash bin with an empty birdcage.  They are here at my house now, but I fear something is terribly wrong."

            "Severus, would you accompany me?" Dumbledore asked, but the Potions Master was already moving toward the fireplace.  The two men stepped into the flame and emerged in Arabella's living room, where she stood, wringing her hands.  Dumbledore held the woman's frail shoulders to comfort her.  "It's alright, Arabella.  We'll discover what is wrong."

            She nodded slowly, then watched as both men disapparated from her living room.

            When Dudley Dursley answered the knock at the door and saw the two strangely dressed men standing on the stoop, he slammed the door closed and instantly called for his father.  Vernon Dursley tore the door open, his face twisted in rage.

            "What do you want?" he demanded.

            "To speak with Harry Potter," the shorter elderly man stated.

            "He's not here," Mr. Dursley snarled, and moved to slam the door shut.  It was blocked, however, by the outstretched hand of the very tall gentleman in black.  

            "You will not speak to the Headmaster in such a tone," he said.  Though his face and voice were calm, the fire in his black eyes intoned a threat.

            "That's quite alright, Severus," the old man said.  "Mr. Dursley, I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster at Hogwarts, and this is Severus Snape, our Potions Master.   Perhaps you should invite us in."

            Vernon Dursley looked from Dumbledore to Snape, from peaceful blue eyes to the threatening black, and reluctantly stepped aside, allowing both men into his house.  Before closing the door, his eyes darted down both ends of the street, hoping nobody saw him allow the two strange men into his house.

            Dumbledore walked through the front foyer toward the living room as if he had been a welcomed guest.  Upon seeing Petunia Dursley, he smiled at her kindly and thanked her that a cup of tea would be lovely (she hadn't offered any), then sat in the corner chair of the room where he could see everyone.  Snape stood next to Dumbledore with his arms folded across his chest, neither smiling nor frowning, but merely observing every movement made by Potter's Muggle guardians.

            Petunia reentered the room with tea, and Dumbledore motioned for both of them to sit on the couch.  They sat, Petunia very stiffly and Vernon looking murderous.

            "Now," Dumbledore began, sipping his tea, "You said a moment ago that Harry is not here.  Where is he?"

            Petunia paled.

            "He's not here," Vernon repeated.

            "You misunderstand the question, Mr. Dursley.  I didn't ask where he isn't.  I asked where he is."

            "He ran away."

            "Ran away?"  Dumbledore exchanged a look with Snape.  "How long ago?"

            "Right after we brought him home."  His eyes strayed uncomfortably at Snape, who never seemed to blink.  

            "Why didn't you inform us of the situation?" Dumbledore asked.

            "The boy threatened my son," Vernon roared.  "Quite frankly I'm glad he's gone.  He's a menace!"  This statement did draw a reaction from Snape.  One eyebrow arched high above the other, but he remained silent.

            "You must excuse me for a moment, Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore said calmly, "but Harry is not the type of boy to get into a scrap with another boy and then run away.  Did anything else happen?  Something that might cause him to run away?"

            "What are you hinting at?" Vernon screamed, shooting up from the couch.

            Snape stepped between the mountain of a man and Dumbledore, his arms still crossed, but his wand was now clutched in one of the hands, plainly visible to Mr. Dursley.

            "Sit down, Mr. Dursley," he said coldly.

            "Your act may scare a bunch of kids at that school, but-"

            "I assure you, my _act_ terrifies the kids at that school, as well as men both larger and more powerful than yourself.  I repeat: Sit down, Mr. Dursley."

            The two men stood staring at each other; one, red in the face and fuming, the other, cold and composed.

            "That's enough, Severus," Dumbledore told him, raising a hand.  "When we leave here today, Harry's only surviving family should be in one piece."

            Vernon glared at the old man, but returned to the couch, the implications of the old man's statement not lost on him.

            "Now, Mrs. Dursley, if you could show Professor Snape to Harry's room."

            "I told you, he's not here," Mr. Dursley said angrily.

            "I was well aware of that the moment I entered your home," Dumbledore told him.  "However, I would like Professor Snape to examine the room.  Perhaps Harry left a clue as to where he went.  It will also give me a chance to speak with you in private, Mr. Dursley."

            Vernon smiled darkly, not noticing the same dark smile creeping across Snape's lips.  Petunia was visibly shaken by the idea of being left alone with the Potions Master, but she rose without a word and led Snape out of the room.  He followed her up the stairs to a room with several locks adorning the door.

            "Why are there locks on this door?" he asked.

            She cringed at the sound of his voice.

            "It- it was used for storage before Harry moved in."

            Snape stared at her for a long moment before Mrs. Dursley averted her eyes and opened the door.  Snape walked into the tiny room and went to the window first.

            "There are bars on the window."  It was made as a statement, but he looked back at the woman for an answer.

            "Se-security." 

            "If I'm not mistaken, we are on the second floor and this is the only room with bars.  Were they used to keep someone out or in?"  He didn't wait for an answer, but bent down, examining the desk and its contents.  There were scuff marks on top, as if the boy had either stood on the desk or sat on it with his shoes on.  Snape guessed the latter.  The contents of the desk were sparse.  The drawers were nearly empty but for a few sheets of paper and a ball point pen.  No parchment.  No quills.  

            Next, he moved to the bed, which was made.  He could smell the detergent of the newly laundered sheets, and knew he would find nothing there to help him.  The wardrobe was of no help either.  He recognized Potter's clothing hanging neatly on hangers.  There were no empty hangers.  Potter hadn't taken any clothing with him when he left, which meant he'd left in a hurry.  He voiced as much to Mrs. Dursley, and watched her carefully for a reaction.  All color drained from her face, and she looked faint for a moment.

            Snape scowled and crossed the room toward the door again, then stopped suddenly and looked down at the floor.  One of the boards in the floor had moved a small fraction under his tread.  He stooped down, running his long fingers over the sides of the floorboards until he found the loose one and pried it up.  Beneath it, he found Potter's schoolbooks, parchment, quills- his wizarding supplies.  Petunia squeaked as he began pulling the items from beneath the floor.  He also found some stale cakes, presumably from the previous summer.  He reached in again to be sure he had retrieved everything, when his fingers brushed leather pushed under one of the neighboring boards.  A journal, he recognized when he finally pulled it out.  Untying the leather string that encircled it, he flipped it open to the last entry.  He skimmed it, the handwriting nearly illegible, as if he had written with his weak hand.

            _June 18th- I'm home again on Privet Drive.  Nothing has changed here, though I feel as if everything is different.  Voldemort is back, yet the Dursley's are still worried about appearing normal.  I guess I envy them that being normal is their biggest worry.  I wish that were my biggest problem.  Instead, I get stuck with visions of murder and torture, and the knowledge that the most evil wizard to ever live wants me dead simply because I am not already.  And I wake up every morning knowing that Cedric will never wake again, and that I am to blame for that.  I guess it's good that I'm here, because now I don't have to see everyone else staring back at me with those piteous eyes, knowing that behind them, they too know that I am to blame.  I am not walking death, but it sure does follow me closely._

            At least the Dursley's show their disgust… perhaps a little too much.  My arm feels like it is on fire.  I don't think it's broken, but it's started to swell up.  Should I tell Uncle Vernon? Maybe he'd take me to get it checked out.  But then, the doctors may ask questions.  I'll wait until morning.  Maybe it will be better by then.

"How did Potter hurt his arm?" Snape asked without looking up.  He knew whatever she said would be a lie, but asked anyway.  Her breathing became quick and erratic.  Snape recognized the unspoken answer: Vernon Dursley.  He slipped the journal into his pocket and replaced the board.  Snape stood up, wiping absently at his clothing, his eyes darting around the room for other small details he may have missed.  

There were fresh scratches on the floor near the base of the bed. 

"The bed was moved," he commented, more to himself than to the damned Dursley woman.  He raised his wand.  "_Windgardium leviosa_."  The bed began to rise.  Mrs. Dursley tore out of the room like a madwoman, though whether it was from fear of Snape, fear of magic, or fear of what he would find, Snape wasn't sure.  He walked under the bed and closely examined a stain on the floor.  It had been scrubbed, but the stain hadn't come up, so the bed had been moved to cover it.  Blood.  Not much, but enough to worry Snape.

He replaced the bed, gathered up the last of Potter's belongings, and went downstairs to rejoin Professor Dumbledore.

"Ah, Severus.  I see you found some things," Dumbledore greeted him when he entered the living room.

"Yes.  Some very interesting things," Snape answered, allowing his gaze to travel to Dursley.  What he saw would have amused him had he not just found the things he had in Potter's bedroom.  Dursley was sitting very still on the couch with both hands folded together in his lap.  His eyes showed abject fear, but he said nothing.  Dumbledore was peacefully sipping at his tea.

            "It is about time we returned to the school," he said, setting his cup aside.  "Mr. Dursley, thank your lovely wife for the tea, and thank you for your time.  Severus."  He waved his wand and disapparated from the room.

            Still holding Potter's belongings in the crook of his arm, Snape turned toward Mr. Dursley, who was staring up at him, menace returning to his eyes.

            "Mr. Dursley," Snape said silkily, "I have some idea what you did to Mr. Potter.  If I find the boy has come to any harm because of you, directly or indirectly, I assure you, I will return to _discuss_ the matter with you." 

            "I'm not scared of you!"

            "_Crucio_."  Snape allowed the spell to continue for barely a second before cutting it off.  Just enough time to gain Dursley's attention.  Then, leaning close to the fat man's ear, whispered:  "You should be."

*  *  *

Okay, there have been a lot of questions about Snape in this chapter, so allow me to share with you my thoughts on Snape.  Ahem. (Sips water, places academic glasses on nose.)

No, I do not see Snape as a misunderstood fellow who really likes Harry, but is just hiding it.  And, no, he is not nice.  I think I've already established that in this chapter.  There are several reasons why he comes on rather strongly here.

Despite his strong dislike for Harry, he has been protecting him throughout the first four books.  Whether this is from some promise made to Dumbledore, a returning-the-favor to James, a pact through the Order of the Phoenix, or simply a realization that Harry could be the key to defeating the Dark Lord so he needs to stay alive long enough to die in the final battle (which I fully believe he will), I don't know. Snape is not a Muggle-fan.  True, he did leave Voldemort's minions, but that does not mean that he has developed a warm fuzzy for the magically-challenged.  When he goes upstairs and sees that, not Harry, but a _wizard_ has been treated as a prisoner by his Muggle family, it pisses him off a wee bit. Both Snape and Dursley are highly intimidating and are trying to intimidate each other from the start.  Consider it a clash of similar mindsets.  Snape, as he himself points out, it truly the more terrifying of the two.  They _will_ meet again and the matter _will _be discussed. 

Now, the use of the Unforgivable.  Some of you have cheered it (heck, I cheer it), and others seem to want to rap me on the knuckles with a ruler.  I agree, it was totally uncalled for.  Snape should know better.  For his defense, see numbers 2 & 3 above.  And remember, old habits die hard.  Perhaps it slipped his mind for the moment that he was with Dumbledore in that house and not Voldemort.  After all, the two are so easily confused. - sarcasm.  Don't flame me.

            As for getting caught, Dumbledore had already apparated out.  He doesn't know what Snape did, though I think he can guess.  Don't worry, there will be a falling out between Snape and Dumbledore concerning Unforgivables and the Dursleys.  Just not right now.

            Finally, while the use of the Unforgivables is outlawed, I don't believe it is monitored.  Nobody showed up when Moody used them in his classroom.  No one noticed when Harry was being crucio'd and imperio'd in the graveyard.  And a flock of Aurors didn't suddenly show up at the Riddle House when V killed the gardener.  It's probably prosecuted the same way as assault and battery.  If the victim doesn't report it, how is anyone going to know?  Who would Dursley report it to? 

            Okay, that's all.  I have to go play 'fetch' with my cat.


	4. Chapter 4

            Okay, I had this chapter almost finished when OotP came out.  Of course, I took time to read the book, and adjust this chapter to reflect what happened in the book.  It originally took place in the Burrow.  My story is now officially an AU, as it takes place during Harry's 5th year.  However, you will see Rowling's new characters and ideas incorporated.  If you haven't yet read the newest installment by Rowling, well, consider yourself forewarned.

*  *  *

"This," Ron Weasley whined, gripping hold of the tattered curtains in one of the many bedrooms at number 12 Grimmauld Place, "has got to be the most disgusting thing I've ever seen."  He continued pulling on the curtains, trying to pull them from the windows.  "I mean, what has that house-elf been doing for the last- Augh!"

            Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny all turned at his scream to see Ron scrambling away from the curtains, now laying on the floor and crawling with large spiders.  His face was pale as he tried to move further away from the eight-legged insects crawling toward him.

            "Aww, ickle Ronniekins doesn't like spiders," Fred cooed as George flicked his wand toward them, freezing them where they stood.  Ginny giggled as Fred picked one up and held it in front of Ron's face.  Ron's skin had turned a pasty green color as his brother held the insect even closer.

            "Oh, leave him alone, Fred," said Hermione testily.

            "I will not," he answered indignantly.  "It's not my fault he doesn't like spiders."

            "Actually, yes it is," George answered him.

            "Oh yeah."  A smile spread across his face.  "Come on, Ron.  Give Teddy a hug."  He thrust it into Ron's face, who screamed, knocking the spider out of Fred's hand and shoving him back against the wardrobe with a loud crack.

            The room froze at the sound of creaking steps.  Someone was coming up to where they were.  Fred and Ron's eyes fell suddenly to the wardrobe's door, which was now hanging crooked.

            "Someone fix it," Hermione hissed.

            "Maybe it's just Sirius," Ginny answered.

            "Well, I'm sure Sirius would not be happy about these two destroying his-."

            "No," George answered.  "That is most definitely _not _Sirius."  He was backing away from the door.  "I know those footsteps."

            "Mum!"   Fred and Ron both said the word at once, and scrambled to look as innocent as possible when the door flew open.

            "WHAT ARE YOU BOYS DOING UP HERE?  I LEAVE YOU ALONE FOR FIVE MINUTES-."

            "What makes you think it was us?" George asked innocently.  "It could have been Ginny and Hermione."

            "Yeah," Fred piped in.  "Ginny called Hermione a frizzy-haired-."

            "FRED, NOT ANOTHER WORD!  I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!  WE ARE TRYING TO HAVE A MEETING DOWNSTAIRS, BUT YOU BOYS-"

            "And girls," George added helpfully.

            "-ARE ACTING LIKE FIVE YEAR OLDS!  NOT ANOTHER PEEP!"  Mrs. Weasley then turned to Ron and Hermione.  "Ron, Hermone, please come downstairs."

            "What?"  Ginny cried.  "Mum, why can't-?"

            "No, Ginny," Mrs. Weasley said firmly.  "Only Ron and Hermione were requested.  You stay here with these two."

            "But-!" the three remaining Weasleys groaned.

            "Stay!"  Mrs. Weasley's voice rose again.  "You three stay here, and if I hear anymore bangs, I will take your wands for the remainder of the summer."

            "You can't!" Fred cried.

            "Watch me!"  She stormed out the door, followed by Hermione and Ron, who cast a last glance at his siblings to see the jealousy on their faces.  Mrs. Weasley did not say another word to them as they followed her quietly down the stairs.  She turned and put her fingers to her lips as they slipped through the hallway and finally to the kitchen where a small crowd of Order members were gathered.  Ron looked around and saw Dumbledore sitting at the head of the table, with Ron's dad and brother, Bill, sitting to his left and Lupin to his right with heart-faced Tonks on his other side sporting shockingly bright red spikes for hair.  The rest of the table was filled by Mad-Eye Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt and several other people whom Ron only knew vaguely.  Professor Snape was leaning against the counter with his arms folded across his chest, while Sirius was across the room leaning against the dresser, his knuckles white from gripping the edge.

            "Ah, Ron, Hermione.  Thank you for coming so quickly.  Please, sit down."  Lupin and Tonks stood to give their seats to them.  Tonks hopped onto the dresser next to Sirius, but Lupin took out his wand and conjured two chairs for himself and Mrs. Weasley.

            "Are we- did we do something wrong?" Ron asked, looking at the serious faces around the room.

            "No," Dumbledore reassured them.  "We simply need to ask you a few questions."

            "Questions?"  Hermione asked.

            "About Harry." 

            "Is something wrong with Harry?" she asked quickly, looking around at their faces for an answer.

            "Harry is missing," Dumbledore said simply.

            "Missing?"  Ron looked around, wondering if this was a bad joke.  "How can he be missing?  I thought you were watching him, the Order, I mean."

            "Those who were watching Harry," Lupin told them, "had very strict orders.  They were to watch the street and the neighborhood, keeping an eye out for anyone suspicious.  They themselves were not to be seen, nor were they to enter the house."  He glanced at Dumbledore, as if asking permission to continue.  "He was never seen leaving the house, so it was assumed he was inside the whole time.  It fit with what was known about the Dursleys and how they acted toward Harry.  However-."  He glimpsed toward Dumbledore, who continued.

            "One of the watchers became suspicious that Harry was not inside.  Professor Snape and myself investigated and found this was true.  Now," he said, pressing his fingertips together and peering at them, "I need to know whether either of you has heard from Harry at all this summer."

            They shook their heads.

            "Nothing?  Not a word?"

            "Is there somewhere he would go if he was in trouble?" Sirius asked.  "If he had to run from something?"

            "The Burrow," Ron answered.  "But we would know if he did, right?"

            "Yes," Ron's dad answered.  He looked around the room.  "What we need to know is how he got out of the house without anyone seeing him."

            "Who was on watch?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

            "Dung," Sirius answered.  "But he swears he was there the whole time."  Mrs. Weasley snorted.

            "The boy has an Invisibility Cloak," Snape ventured.

            "That thought occurred to me," Lupin answered.  "I checked.  His cloak is in his trunk, as is his wand." 

            The room was silent for a moment before Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke up:

            "From what Snape and Dumbledore told us, I suppose we can't ignore the possibility that Harry didn't leave-."

            "Perhaps," Snape interrupted, "if we have gleaned all information from them, it would be prudent to send Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley back upstairs before continuing with suppositions and possibilities."

            "I quite agree," Mrs. Weasley exclaimed jumping from her seat, while everyone else seemed to have forgotten their presence.  "Ron, Hermione, let's go."

            "But-."

            "No 'buts,' Ron.  Move."

            Ron grumbled all the way up the stairs, followed closely by Hermione and his mother, who seemed determined that they not simply turn at the door and continue to listen to the discussion.  As soon as he had rejoined his siblings and Mrs. Weasley had left, Ron turned quickly to his brothers.

"Those Extendable Ears you guys were working on- do they work?"

"Yeah.  Why?"  George answered, looking at his little brother curiously.  Ron and Hermione launched into a description of what had happened and been discussed.

            "You're serious?  Harry's missing?"  Fred said, half expecting it to be a joke.

            "How long?" Ginny asked.

            "They didn't say," Ron answered.

            "But from the way they're talking downstairs," Hermione added, "a while- possibly since holiday began." 

            The twins looked at each other briefly, then disappeared from the room with a _POP_.  They returned moments later carrying a very long flesh colored string.  The four Weasleys and one Granger stole quietly onto the landing of the stairs and made their way down until they were within sight of the kitchen.  Ginny, the smallest, snuck down the rest of the way, tucking the string just under the door, then made her way up to listen with the others.  The first voice they heard was Professor Lupin.

            "Sirius, nobody is arguing with you that we need to find Harry.  We know that.  But you can't argue that we need some sort of plan.  We simply can't-"

            "Planning takes too long!"  A crash.

            "-run in opposite directions yelling his name."  Lupin's voice remained level, as if used to arguing over Sirius' emotional outbursts.  "It would be chaos, and Harry wouldn't be found.  There are simply too many places for him to hide."

            "Fine, Remus," Sirius replied after a short silence.  "So where do we start?"

            There was a low murmur, as if everyone had ideas, but didn't want to venture them aloud to the group, merely to their neighbor.  Suddenly, one voice was heard over all others, though not necessarily loud.

            "Dursley."  Snape said only the one word.  Chairs could be heard scraping, as if the room had turned to face him.  After several more moments of silence, he spoke again.  "He's hiding something.  That was more than obvious when we visited the house.  Mr. Dursley became angry and Mrs. Dursley fearful when we began questioning them about Harry's disappearance."

            "Are you sure that wasn't your charming personality-?"

            "No, Sirius," Dumbledore answered.  "I saw it too.  I have already decided that the Dursley family will require further questioning.  I believe they will be our first step."

            "I'll go," Sirius spoke up quickly, but was over-ridden.

            "Kinsley and Remus will go.  I'm sure they will be able to remain the most calm whatever they hear."  A pregnant pause.  "I trust the family will remain safe and unharmed during your questioning."

            "Of course," Lupin and Shacklebolt answered quickly.

            "I'll go too," Sirius volunteered.

            "You will not."

            "Dumbledore-."

            "No, Sirius," Dumbledore replied firmly.  "You will not leave this house."  The silence that followed was uncomfortable, as if everyone's eyes were on either Sirius or Dumbledore.  More calmly, the head of the Order spoke again.  "Do not forget, just because you are innocent, does not mean that the whole world will realize it as we do.         You will be of no use to Harry if you are captured, Sirius.  And you will not go back to Azkaban.  Your punishment will not be one of confinement."

            "I'm sorry."

            "Do not apologize for caring about your godson, but remember that you are not the only one who does.  We will find him, but when we do, I do not want to have to tell him he no longer has a godfather.  Understand?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "Good.  Now, I believe you have an appointment, Severus?"  No verbal answer came.  "Go then.  I must-."  The sound of footsteps.  Snape was leaving.  Fred pulled hard on the Extendable Ear, pulling it from the door just as it slid open and emitted their Potions master into the hallway.  The students watched him pass under them, then, as he disappeared  from sight, launched themselves back to the room they were supposed to be cleaning.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, an extra long chapter fro two reasons.  First, I just had a lot I wanted to get in here, but splitting it up would have made it two short chapters, and that's never fun.  And second, because I took so darn much time to write it.  I'm sorry.  I had rather hoped to have this out last week, but then a friend came to visit and I had obligations to keep… and then my boyfriend proposed to me, so I've been giddy and calling all of my family and being to annoyingly cheerful to get the tone right for this story.  I hope you like what I give you, and please don't leave me after you read this chapter.

*  *  *

"He's hiding something."

            Truer words were never spoken.

            Vernon Dursley had not been exactly easy to track down.  An impromptu vacation had followed the visit from Dumbledore and Snape, causing Remus and Kingsley to spend several hours tracking them down.  This only began to heighten their suspicions.  That the man had barely been civil when they knocked on the motel room door is an understatement.  He was a down right degenerate.  The man looked Remus up and down, taking in the graying hair and haggard appearance, and announced that he had no spare change to give before slamming the door closed.  Remus knocked again and called through the thin wood.

            "Mr. Dursley, my name is Remus Lupin.  I'm here to ask you about your nephew."  Hurried whispers reached the wizards' ears before the door was thrown open again and a large mountain of a man launched himself at the thin, pale, former-professor.  It's hard to tell whether Dursley would have launched himself on the smaller man had he known a) he was a werewolf, b) two days before a full moon, and that c) werewolves are not happy when large men attack them unprovoked, especially when said werewolf is trying to find the missing son of his best friend and has reason to suspect said large man is the reason the boy is missing.

            Seeing Lupin's eyes flash dangerously as the wolf threatened to surface, Kingsley whipped out his wand and leveled it at the great Muggle's chest.

            "It's really not a good time of the month to attack him,_ sir_."  Dursley looked at him with utter shock, having not even realized there had been another man there.

            "You brought a bodyguard too, huh?" Dursley snarled at Lupin, eyeing the bald black wizard.

            "Believe me, Dursley," Kingsley answered coolly, "_he_ wasn't the one I was protecting."  He motioned toward the door of the motel room with his wand.  "Shall we go inside?  Or do we question you out here where everyone else can hear?"

            "YOU WILL NOT COME IN!"

            "All right," Kingsley answered.  "I am Kingsley Shacklebolt.  I am an Auror for the Ministry.  I'm here with Mr. Lupin to question you on the disappearance of your nephew and the charges of assault against that boy."

            "Vernon, for God's sakes, let them in."  A pale horse-faced woman appeared in the doorway.  Lupin could have smelled the fear on her, even if Moony weren't fighting to put an appearance.  Dursley's face turned red, but he walked back into the motel room, followed by Kingsley and Remus.

            "Not a good time of the month?" Lupin asked softly as they followed him.

            "Was I lying?"

            "No, but you could have phrased it differently."

            "Probably," Kingsley answered with a shrug.  "But so long as I didn't have to watch you rip his throat out with your teeth, I don't really care."  Lupin sighed and followed the Auror into the room.

            The room was fairly small, containing two small beds and a dirty couch.  Several suitcases were stacked in the corner under an old television locked on a shelf near the ceiling.  The wallpaper, lime green pinstripes, was peeling in places and showed evidence of water damage.  The horse-faced woman had sat on the bed farthest from the door and was holding a rather large trembling boy of about Harry's age, though with blonde hair and a piggish face.

            "Is there anyone else in the room, Mrs. Dursley?" Remus asked the woman.

            "Do I know you?" she replied, eyeing him carefully.

            "We've met.  I was friends with your sister and her husband in school.  Now, is there anyone else here?"

            She shook her head as Kingsley checked the bathroom, pulling the door closed and checking the empty wardrobe.  Lupin locked the door and pulled the curtains over the window.

            "What do you people want?" Dursley demanded.  "I told the Headmaster at that school-."

            "We know what you told the Headmaster," Lupin assured him.  "But we think you know a little more than that."

            "Are you calling me a liar?"

            "Yes, I am."  A murderous look crossed Dursley's eyes, but Lupin ignored it.  "Sit down, Mr. Dursley."  Dursley took a step forward.  Kingsley's wand was already trained on him, but Lupin slid his own out from beneath his robes.  "Sit down, Mr. Dursley," he repeated coldly, "or I will see to it you never stand again."  Kingsley's eyes slid over to Lupin, but he said nothing as Dursley dropped himself onto the bed nearest the door.  Lupin met Kingsley's eyes and nodded.

            Kingsley Shacklebolt stared at the normally placid and controlled man for a moment longer as he began to pace the room, seeming more like a caged animal than his bookish academic self.  The Auror found himself wondering if Dumbledore had presumed incorrectly when he assigned Lupin to attend to keep everything calm- especially with the full moon so near.  But then, the heightened senses might yet be of help.  These few seconds had given him time to relax and slip into a mood for interrogation.  Calm, precise, calculating. 

            "How is your Latin, Mr. Dursley?" Kingsley asked as he removed a small vial Snape had given him from his robes.  When the large man snorted, Kingsley continued.  "This is called Veritaserum.  _Veritas_ is Latin for truth.  Can you guess what this does?"  Dursley made no answer.  "Three small drops of this rather potent potion will cause you to answer any questions we pose you truthfully, even against your will.  We can ask you about your business dealings, your finances, you infidelities, and you will tell us the absolute truth.  We, however, have no interest in those things.  All we wish to know about is a certain young man who was placed in your care, but has now vanished."  He glanced at Dursley who had paled violently.  "You look pale, Mr. Dursley.  Surely you have no reason to be nervous, as you've already told us everything you know.  Or perhaps not?"

            "Get.  Out.  Of.  Here."  His voice was low, but trembled with anger.  Kingsley smiled, despite himself.  Partly, because smiling at this point gave the appearance that he was greatly going to enjoy forcing the serum down his fleshy throat and demanding all his innermost secrets, and partly because he knew he was going to enjoy forcing the serum down _his_ fleshy throat, as the Auror had heard and seen enough to know that Snape was right: this man had done something violent to the boy.

            "Mrs. Dursley," Lupin broke in, "why don't you and your son take a walk?  Twenty, thirty minutes, perhaps."  

            "Not without-."

            "I really must insist, Mrs. Dursley.  Neither you nor your son want to be here for this."  He unlocked the door.  "Oh, and before I forget-."  He waved his wand toward them.  "_Lumos._  If you talk to anyone about what is going on in here, the tip of my wand will extinguish.  Remember, your husband is still here with _us._"   He smiled innocently at them as the woman gasped and ushered her son out the door.  Lupin locked the door and met Kingsley with an amused smile.  He hadn't been a Marauder for all those years without learning a few tricks.

            Time to proceed with the plan.  It was a simple plan.  Feed Dursley the serum and question him on the last night Harry had been in his house.  Of course, Dursley did not cooperate.  Lupin had to put him in a full body bind so Kingsley could administer the required drops into his throat.  The seconds ticked by slowly as the serum took affect.  Finally, Dursley, staring glassily ahead, was ready.  And then the plan, the simple plan, the calm plan, the non-violent plan, crumbled. 

Dursley began recounting the events of the night of Harry's disappearance under the effects of the serum they had forced down his throat.  He described in detail how he had beat the boy after he argued with Dudley, the Dursley child.  Even Kingsley's (who had seen and heard everything after hunting Dark wizards) skin crawled as the man described in detail how Potter gasped for breath, coughing and sputtering as blood filled his lungs or how his body twisted in the air as he was thrown down the stairs.

The man was so maddeningly calm, an effect of the serum, Kingsley knew, when he pronounced the inevitable truth.

"Where is Harry now?" Lupin had asked.

"He's dead.  I wrapped his body in a blanket and drove it out to Cranleigh.  It's in a field near the A281."

Kingsley felt as if he had been doused by cold water.  This ugly mound of flesh had killed Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.  He did what Voldemort could not, in a fit of rage and abuse.  He murdered an unarmed boy, for, from what he had heard of the boy, had Potter had his wand, this man could never have overpowered him.  

Then Lupin snapped.  Had the Auror not been preoccupied with his own disgust at the man before them, he probably could have stopped him.  Had he wanted to.

Lupin pitched himself across the room, his fist connecting squarely with Dursley's nose.  His great head whipped back against the back of the chair, his nose spouting blood.  Lupin had hit him a second time before Kingsley could drag him away.

"Let's go, Remus," he said, his long arms still restraining him around the chest.

"I'm done," Lupin told him, holding up his arms.  "I'm done.  I won't hit him again."

"You weren't supposed to hit him the first time," Kingsley told him, releasing him and leaning over the bleeding Muggle.  He flicked his wand, repairing his crooked nose and cleaning the blood from his face and shirt.

"He's lucky I just hit him," Lupin said, rubbing his throbbing knuckles.  "I wanted to hex him into next year."  He shook out his hand.  "Merlin that hurt!  Now I remember why I left the fighting to James and Sirius."  He glanced back at Kingsley.  "How long until the effect of the serum wears off?"

"He's got some time yet, but we need to get back.  Report what we've heard."

"Fine." Lupin answered.  "Leave him.  When his wife comes back, she can ask him a few questions as well.  He'd deserve it.  He deserves worse."  Lupin and Kingsley disapparated from the room.

Hermione found Ron in the only large tree of the walled garden behind Sirius' house.  He was sitting on one of the higher boughs of an apple tree, with one knee pulled up to his chest and the other hanging down, dangling several feet above Hermione's head.  She had seen him up there several times since they were told of Harry's disappearance.  Hermione was worried.  It was unlike Ron to be so distant and quiet.  Even when he was mad at her during their third year, he had been much more vocal, even if it wasn't toward her.

            She called his name several times, but when he didn't respond, she began the slow trek up through the branches, silently wishing she had been a bit more boyish as a small child.  Instead, she had spent more time reading about trees than actually climbing them.  By the time she reached him, she had skinned both knees, all the knuckles on her left hand, cut the palm of her right, and had a hairful of twigs and leaves.  She thought of none of this as she plopped herself down on a neighboring branch, careful not to fall out of the tree she had spent so much time climbing.

            "You found me," he said, almost too softly for her to hear.

            "It wasn't too hard," she answered.  "I could see your hair as soon as I came outside."  

            He forced a smile that plainly told her he was in no mood to laugh.  Hermione sighed and looked out over the landscape Ron had been staring at.  She could easily see into the windows of the second story, were they not so far from the house itself.  The garden below was wild and unkempt.  Ordered patches of herbs and other useful flora had long been strangled into nonexistence by weeds and long grass.  It was all nicely green, but rather too chaotic to be a decent wizarding garden.

            "This is very peaceful," she told him.

            "Yeah.  I found it yesterday when I needed a quiet place to think."

            "You think?" she asked curiously, hoping to get some kind of reaction.  Instead, she received another weak smile.  "Oh, come on Ron!  I'm trying really hard here!  The least you could do is make your smiles a little less forced!"  When he didn't answer, she sighed and turned toward him clumsily, nearly falling out of the tree until his hand shot out sideways and grabbed her arm, steadying her on her perch.

            "'Mione, maybe you shouldn't be up here," he said, eyeing her position carefully.  "You could break your neck if you fall."

            "Ron, I'm up here because you've been up here all day.  I'm worried about Harry too, but sulking up in this tree isn't going to accomplish anything.  Besides, I thought- I thought maybe we could do something fun together to take our minds off other things."

            "I'm not in the mood to do homework."

            "I'm not talking about homework.  I thought maybe you could help me with my flying."

            "You hate flying," he said, eyeing her cautiously.  "Besides, I'm not sure we'd be allowed, being in a Muggle neighborhood and all."

            "Well, I'm not very good at it.  I thought maybe if I were better-."  She waved a dismissive hand, teetering on the branch.  "Besides, I asked Sirius, and he said so long as we don't go over the height of the house, we shouldn't be seen outside the protective barriers."

            "You're serious?"

            "Yeah."   If Mrs. Weasley had managed to raise six boys like she did, she probably knew something about setting broken bones and treating concussions.  "Help me with my flying."

            "Alright."  An actual grin broke out on Ron's face, the first she'd seen since early the previous day, making the whole trip up the tree worth it.    He quickly scrambled down the tree, followed much more slowly by Hermione, who he helped from the lowest branches.  "Come on.  I'm sure you can use Ginny's broom."  They turned and raced toward the house.

            Lupin made his way up the narrow staircase of Number 12 Grimmauld Place and stopped outside the closed door of the highest room.  It was the bedroom of Sirius' late mother, and now the coop for Buckbeak, the hippogriff.  Remus knew he'd find Sirius there without having to ask Mrs. Weasley, who waved her hand toward the staircase when he said he would fetch his friend.  

            Without knocking, Remus pushed the door open and stepped into the dimly lit room, his attention drawn first to Buckbeak, stepping about nervously at his entrance, then to the dark shape shifting suddenly to the right.  

            "You're back."  A simple statement. 

            "I am."

"Did you find him?"  Sirius stepped away from the wall, seeming decidedly unsteady on his feet, but gaining his equilibrium quickly.  Unshaven stubble shadowed his jaw and cheeks, and a faint odor told Remus his friend had not showered that day.

"Come downstairs, Sirius.  We'll explain what we learned to everyone at once."  He turned so Sirius would follow him, but the other made no movement.

"Something's wrong.  What is it, Remus?"  When his friend did not answer, Sirius grabbed his arm.  "Damn it, Remus, tell me!  Where's Harry?  Where's my godson?"

Pulling his arm from the restraining grip, Remus frowned at his best friend, but that faded at the grief and worry that had settled in Sirius' countenance.  

"Come downstairs, Sirius.  You will hear everything, I promise."

"What did you do to your hand?" he asked, eyeing Remus' bleeding knuckles.

"I thanked Mr. Dursley for his time."

Sirius raised an eyebrow, his mouth twisted in a half-hearted smirk.

"You hit him?  I'm proud of you-."

"Don't be," Remus cut him off.  "I'm not."

Ron and Hermione were surprised to see that Ginny was looking for them.  She stood on the landing motioning for them to come into her room where they found the twins awaiting them as well.

"What's going on?" Ron asked, looking at his siblings.

"Lupin and Shacklebolt are back," George informed them from his cross-legged position on Ginny's bed.  "Lupin went to find Sirius, and we think Shacklebolt is contacting the rest of the order."

"We're waiting for the meeting to start," Fred continued.  "Mum's been prowling, so we figured it would be best if she couldn't find us to assign more cleaning."

"Did you see them when they came back?"  Hermione asked.  "Did they look hopeful?"

            "We couldn't really tell-."  She broke off as two sets of steps made their way down the stairs.  "Lupin and Sirius," she whispered.

            "Ginny, go ask mum to braid your hair."

            "What?  Why?"

            George rolled his eyes.

            "Just ask her, and take a look around all innocently and see what's going on.  Find out if everyone's here yet.  She won't suspect you of spying."

            "Oh.  Okay!"  She jumped up and they heard her bounding down the stairs stop abruptly.  Then, her footsteps returned, accompanied by another well-recognized set.  The door opened in came Ginny and Mrs. Weasley.

            "Stay in here, Ginny," she was saying.  "We're trying to have a very important meeting downstairs.  I'll braid your hair later tonight, but not now."

            "Mum," Ron said, his face slightly pale, "Did they find Harry?"

            "I don't know yet, Ron.  The meeting is just beginning, but I know we will keep looking until we find him."  She was silent for a moment, then swept forward and embraced her youngest son.  "Don't worry, Ron.  The Order won't let Harry stay missing for long."  She released him and addressed the rest of her brood.  "Stay up here and out of the way.  You can help us best by not being underfoot right now."

            "What if they don't find him?" Hermione asked, drawing an annoyed look from the twins who desperately wanted their mother to join the meeting and leave them to their spying.

            "We'll find him, Hermione," she told her.  "We'll find Harry."  She smiled reassuringly, reminded them to stay upstairs, and retreated to the meeting.  The five counted to a hundred before sneaking out on the landing with their Extendable Ears.

            "- under Veritaserum.  His descriptions were disturbing to say the least."  It was Kingsley Shacklebolt speaking.  "Apparently, the morning began with an argument between Potter and Mr. Dursley's son, Dudley.  Mr. Dursley stepped in and hit Harry repeatedly, then dragged him upstairs.  He threatened to choke Potter, but was unnerved by his calm.  They had words that ended in Dursley severely beating the boy."

            "Words that ended in-."  It was Sirius, and he seemed unable to finish the statement.  "What words-."

            "Calm down, Sirius," Lupin told him.  He sounded worried and angry at the same time.

            "How severely?" Sirius demanded.

            "Severely," Shacklebolt answered.  "Hit him, kicked him, stomped on him.  Specifically, he said he stomped on his hand to break it.  Didn't want him using magic.  However, Harry was conscious, even able to stand, although, from the description we received, he was hurt pretty badly."

            Apparently, Sirius tried to interrupt again, because Dumbledore spoke up.

            "Please, let us hear out all the information first.  I have a feeling we have not heard the worst of what is to come."  There was a moment's silence.

            "You haven't," Lupin said.  "Harry was able to stand, even take a step or two.  At this point-  at this point, Dursley grabbed him, telling him he no longer wanted him in his house and threw him down the stairs."

            There was a collective gasp, and an audible sob from Mrs. Weasley.

            Shocked, Hermione ventured a glance at Ron.  His skin was now completely white, his eyes wide and unfocused as he stared ahead, holding the flesh colored tube of the Extendable Ear to his own ear.  George caught his sister's trembling hand as the room downstairs became silent again, as if everyone needed to hear what was next, but neither Shacklebolt nor Lupin wanted to speak.  

            "Please, continue," Dumbledore said.

            "Harry hit the steps near the bottom, and when he came to a rest, he wasn't moving."  Their former DADA professor, who always seemed as calm as Snape, though a hundred times nicer, was far from calm.  His voice was tight and breaking as he pronounced the final words.  "He's dead.  Vernon Dursley killed Harry Potter."

            Silence settled over the entire house.  Then, there was a commotion downstairs.  Mrs. Weasley was sobbing.  Someone yelled Sirius' name, chairs scraped across the floor, and directions were shouted.  The spies on the landing, however, heard none of this.  Their eyes were focused on each other, and mostly on Ron, whose breathing was rapid and shallow.  He seemed unable to stand without supporting himself on the banister.  His light brown eyes stared, as if in an unseeing daze, his lips slightly parted.

            "Ron," Hermione said softly, laying her hand on his shoulder.  She herself felt weak from this unexpected news, but Ron, Ron looked positively ill.

            He flinched at her touch, awoken from a trance, and stared at her as if he had never seen her before in his life.  Drunkenly, he shrugged her hand away, staggering backwards until his feet met the steps.  Without a word, he fled, taking long, frenzied strides that engulfed several steps at once, and disappeared into his room.

            The others were too shocked by the news and Ron's reaction to realize that the door downstairs had opened, until Ginny's Extendable Ear was yanked from her grasp, and Mrs. Weasley's shaking, but very angry voice bellowed up the staircase, "FRED!  GEORGE!  GET DOWN HERE!"

*  *  *

Wow, I felt like that just took me forever.  I'm sorry if anyone seems ooc here.  I was trying hard.  I know I have Lupin hitting Dursley, and I debated that for a long time, but in the end, I had to have it there.  I honestly don't think anyone can listen to the murder of a young man, and not feel violent toward the offender, especially when the boy is the son of his best friend.  I needed someone to hit him, and as Sirius couldn't do it, Lupin had.  I don't know if I made this clear, but Lupin hinted that it was a conscious decision to hit him with his fist, because if he'd have used his wand, well, Dursley would not have been left in any kind of decent shape.

Plus, I really don't think Lupin and Snape are all that different at the core (deeper than personality), especially after the 5th book.  I thought it would be interesting to have similar reactions toward Dursley.

PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME AFTER THIS CHAPTER!!!  I PROMISE IT WILL BE WORTH YOUR WHILE!!!  DON'T FORGET, WE HAVEN'T SEEN VOLDEMORT, BEEN TO SCHOOL, SEEN THE DURSLEY'S PUNISHED, OR FOUND HARRY'S BODY.  I STILL HAVE LOTS TO WRITE!!!!


	6. Chapter 6

Oops, I haven't put a disclaimer on this yet.  I'm sure no one thought otherwise, but…

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters (except maybe one or two minors that will appear later).  They are part of JKR's universe.  I just like to add a little chaos.

L'il Timmy:  God, why do bad things happen to bad people?

God:  Because it makes for better reading.

Boy, you guys really reacted to that last chapter.  And here I thought I was just writing for 5 or 6 people, but chapter 5 brokered 70 reviews in 3 days!  That's impressive for me.  I hope none of you took off, damning me for what I did to Harry.  You'll be disappointed if you don't ever come back!!!

            I'm heading on vacation, so this will be it for two weeks.  I will be writing on the story, but not posting until I return.  I know this is short, but I wanted to get this out before I leave.  It's short and sweet (hopefully not sappy) and a touch angsty (not much yet), but both parts are necessary for what's to come.  Enjoy!!

*  *  *

            To say the least, Mrs. Weasley was not impressed by the twins' ingenuity in creating the Extendable Ears.  Rather, she was outraged.  As punishment, Fred and George were made to clean the marble floors of the parlor the Muggle way, without the help of magic.  Ginny and Hermione snuck down to help as a thank you for not squealing on the other eavesdroppers.  Not that this disappointed them.  It actually placed them closer to the meeting, so they knew it continued for another thirty minutes before the entire party rose and left the house.  Everyone, that is, except Mrs. Weasley and Sirius.  They knew Mrs. Weasley was still there because she came in to check on the boys' progress (Hermione and Ginny hid).  Sirius could be heard arguing with Dumbledore from the main foyer (waking Mrs. Black, to everyone's chagrin) that he should be allowed to join in the search.  So, they were searching for Harry's body.  

The work was good, as it took everyone's mind off the news they had heard, or at least, gave them a reason to remain silent in the midst of the others and contemplate it.

Harry was dead.

Murdered.

These words swam in Hermione's mind hours after as she lay in her bed, unable to sleep.  Ginny had cried herself to exhaustion some time before, but Hermione found no solace in sleep.  She had shed her own share of tears, listening to Ginny and attempting to console her, but the back of her mind was trying to give herself hope.

Harry couldn't be dead.  Not after everything he'd been through.  Not after everything he'd survived.  If anyone was going to survive this, Voldemort's resurrection, it was Harry.  Despite everything she'd told herself for the last five years, he was not just Harry.

He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

It was only in the short hours before dawn that she broke down again, hearing the door open and close amidst the deathly silence of the house.  They were back.  Mr. Weasley, Charlie, and Lupin were back from searching for Harry's body.  Hermione strained to hear the voices on the stairs as Mr. Weasley met his wife on the steps.

"Did you find him, Arthur?"  Mrs. Weasley sounded as if she too had been awake all night.  

"I'm afraid not.  We found lots of mud and weeds, but no sign of Harry."

"But what-?"

"I'm tired, Molly.  And cold.  Let's go to bed."  There was little argument, though a small humph told Hermione that Mrs. Weasley was just as starved for information at this point as she was.  She waited until she heard the door to their bedroom close, then waited as long as she could before rising from her own bed and wrapping a robe around her body.  She would find no rest tonight.

She slipped out of her room, and nearly screamed as Kreacher slunk past her, muttering under his breath.

"Dirty Mudblood, befouling my Mistress' home.  Sneaking about in the darkness.  Kreacher sees her.  Stain on the name of witch.  She'll-."

Hermione turned in the opposite direction.  Ron's room was two doors down.  Perhaps he was still awake?

She knocked softly, waited, then knocked again, quietly calling his name.  The door opened moments later, and she slid through the crack before closing it firmly behind her.  Turning, she found the room was dark, but after adjusting for a few seconds, could make out the outline of Ron sitting up on his bed.     

"Ron?"  When he didn't answer, she made her way to the foot of his bed and sat down, feeling him draw his feet away as she lowered her weight onto the mattress.

"What are you doing here, Hermione?"  His voice sounded almost accusatory.

"I-."  She stopped.  For once in her life, she didn't have an answer.  Why was she there?  To comfort him?  He didn't exactly ask her to come, nor did he show any sign of wanting comfort.  To talk?  Not with the huge lump in her throat.  Certainly not to plan?  What was there to plan?  Harry was dead.  No amount of planning could save him.  

Hermione's cheeks turned hot.  Her eyes stung.  Unable to contain what she'd been feeling for the last ten hours, she finally allowed herself to totally break down.  Not just cry.  She'd already cried.  The emotional side of her took over, her body too tired to attempt to quiet the shudders that wracked her body with each silent, but heart-wrenching sob.

She was tired of being the strong one, the logical one.  She didn't want to be the one to take apart the problem and discover the answer.  She simply wanted to cry and rant and scream and sob.  Unfortunately, the hour only allowed for crying.

It took Ron a moment to realize what was happening, that Hermione had broken down at the foot of his bed.  His own grief was forgotten as she fell sideways on the mattress, burying her face in her hands.  In the pre-dawn darkness, he could see her shoulders shaking weakly as she drew her knees up, curling herself into a ball.

"Mione?" he whispered, reaching out to her shoulder.

"Don't," she answered, wiping her eyes and face on the sleeve of her robe.  "Don't- don't tell me I'm being silly or emotional.  And please, please don't tell me to leave."  A shuddering breath escaped her lips.  "I know you don't want me here, but I can't stand to be alone right now with nothing but my- my brain repeating-."  A fresh wave of tears escaped her eyes.

"I'm not going to say that," he told her, pulling her up by her shoulders and wrapping his arms around her shoulders comfortingly, drawing her to his chest.  Ron held his friend tightly, glad that his own store of tears had been exhausted.  He comforted her and his own whirling mind by absently rubbing her back and whispering to her in a low voice, though what exactly he had said, he could not have recalled afterwards.  

Hermione began to calm as the first light of dawn filtered through the window, washing the room with blushing light.

"Thank you," she whispered, pulling out of Ron's embrace and sitting again on the foot of his bed.  "I guess I just needed to let that out."

"Yeah," he answered awkwardly.  "I did the same thing when I came in here."  His face flushed when he realized what he had just admitted to.

"It's odd," Hermione said, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them after adjusting her robe to cover her.  "All of this just kind of blindsided us.  All the risks he used to take, and then this.  I keep thinking we just misunderstood everything we heard." 

"How do you misunderstand, 'Vernon Dursley killed Harry Potter'?  Harry's dead.  Stupid git.  He wasn't supposed to die."  

"Ron?"

"Well he wasn't.  I know he's just another kid at school, but in the wizarding world, Harry's a big deal.  You've seen how people react to him- even adults.  It's like he's not a real person, just this ideal of what every good little magical kid should be.  I mean, we all knew who he was before he did.  I bet that's why they all went out right away- to find his body.  Nobody's going to believe he's gone without proof."

"You seem willing to," Hermione answered.

"Are you saying he's not dead?"  Ron jumped off the bed and began pacing the bare wood floors, the bottoms of his pajamas revealing several inches of bare leg.  "Do you really think that Harry's alive?  That everything we heard was wrong?"  He stopped, looking at her, as if daring her to answer.  "Do you really think that that stupid Muggle uncle of his was able to lie even after he was given the Truth Serum?"

"No.  All I'm saying is-."

"Harry's dead, Hermione.  He's not going to be the savior of the Wizarding world again.  He's not one of the Great Wizards.  He's just a regular kid like us."

Hermione scoffed.

"He's the furthest thing from being a regular kid there is."

Ron sniffed sardonically.

"No, Harry is not a regular kid."  He picked up a crumpled shirt from the floor, balled it angrily and threw it across the room.  "He never was."  He stood motionless, staring at some unknown spot across the room.

"Ron?"

"I hated him.  I- _hated _Harry."

"Ron, you don't mean that."

"He was my best friend and I loved him like my brother."  He turned and looked at Hermione, held her gaze.  "But I hated him, too.  He was everything I could never be, just because he was Harry-bloody-Potter.  But you know what?  At the end of the day, he was still my best friend.  He was still Harry_- just_ Harry."

"Of course he was, Ron."

"But a part of me still hated him."  His voice shook as he resumed looking at the far off spot on the wall.  "I knew he never wanted any of that- that attention and celebrity, but- but…"  Ron squeezed his eyes shut, willing the hot salty tears to stay in their place, but one escaped, falling from his fair eyelash and making its slow path over the contours of his cheek, mouth, and jaw.  "I never wanted him to die, Hermione.  Believe me, I never, never-."

"I know, Ron."  She wrapped her arms around his waist, comforting him as he had done for her earlier.

"He was my best friend," Ron croaked, burying his face in her shoulder.  "He was my best friend, and I never wanted him to die, I promise.  Why did he have to die?"

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk in the Headmaster's Office of Hogwarts.  His long, thin hand absently petted Fawkes, who was perched on the arm of his chair.  His blue eyes, often described as glittering, dancing, or sparkling, were none of these, in fact, were quite tired and dull as they stared unfocused into space.

"Albus."

Called back, Dumbledore looked back to his Heads of House who had been gathered in his office for some time.  Three of them, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout, were still dappled with mud, having trudged through the fields of Cranleigh in search of Harry's body.  Snape, however, had been summoned, and now stood a little apart from the others, still wearing his black cloak, his Death Eater mask tucked inside one of the many pockets hidden within its voluminous folds.

"We did not find his body, Severus."

Snape cocked an eyebrow.

"I know that, Albus.  You told me nearly twenty minutes ago when I asked."

"How odd.  How very odd."  The headmaster closed his eyes, murmuring softly to himself.  _"…many possibilities… explanations…" _

"Albus," McGonagall said, "shouldn't we inform the Ministry?  The papers?  Someone?"

"No," Dumbledore answered firmly, his eyes still closed.  "We will inform no one."

"But surely it will get out.  There are only three and a half weeks of Holiday left.  When the students return-."

"That's exactly it, Minerva.  Until the students return, there is no reason-."

"Albus!  You can't-."

"Hear me out.  Announcing Harry's death to the world tomorrow or next week would do more harm than good at this point.  We have no hard evidence, no body, and without that, who would believe it, even with the stories run by the Daily Prophet.  For those who do believe that Voldemort has again risen, Harry's death will be the death of what he represents: hope.  No, we will wait for September first.  Hopefully, by then, the problem will remedy itself."

"Remedy itself?"  Flitwick leaned forward in his chair.  "What do you mean, Albus?"

"Idle thought, Filius," Dumbledore answered with a slight smile.

"You haven't had an idle thought in your life."

"There is a first time for everything," he returned, a faint glint in his eyes, that disappeared quickly.  "We announce nothing until September first, allowing of course that Severus informs Voldemort beforehand, for the sake of his own safety."

"Thank you," Snape answered darkly, daring not to think on the recriminations of the Dark Lord learning this information from any but himself.  An involuntary shudder passed through his shoulders, unnoticed to all but the Headmaster's eyes, which were focused solely on him.  "Are we finished here?" he asked.  "I'm sure I'm not the only one who would rather not remain in their current garb for longer than necessary."

"Yes, we are finished.  Go, get some rest."

Snape began to follow the others out of the room, but was stopped by Dumbledore's voice.

"Severus, if you would stop by my office tomorrow afternoon for tea.  I would like to have a conversation."

"A conversation?"  An odd way to phrase it.  "About what?"

"Philosophy, theory, potions, and truth."  He said these words with a measure of finality, leaving Snape to wonder at their meaning.   


	7. Chapter 7

They say there are steps to grieving for those who are lost to us, emotions we all feel when faced with the death of one we love.  Our minds and our hearts disagree on the information we learn, and we are hurt, angered by this.  We feel doubt as to our own immortality, for do we not all want to live forever?  Perhaps we are merely afraid to die.  But then, did a great man not once say, "To a well ordered mind, death is but the next great adventure"?  There are many among us, who, when the time comes, look on death without fear in their hearts.  After all, how else shall we see what lies beyond?  Death is an adventure- one from which we cannot return… at least, not unchanged.  Why then, do survivors continue to look for us to pull us back, if only to reconcile their own minds with their own hearts.    

It was a mere two days before the students were to return to school, and still there was no further information on Harry.  No spells could locate him, supporting Dursley's explanation.  Tonks and Lupin had pored over Muggle newspapers, looking for information on a body found in a Surrey field, but no articles recounted the events.  Charlie and his father were visiting area mortuaries and hospitals, hoping to contact someone who knew anything, but merely facing blank nurses who refused to give out information concerning patients who were not relatives.  Now, they were all gathered in the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place awaiting the arrival of Dumbledore, of whom they had seen very little over the past few weeks.

Sirius was the only member who had not been involved in the constant search for Harry.  His prison was much smaller than the house he was not permitted to leave.  It was within him, blaming him every moment for the death of the boy who had been his godson.  No amount of fire whiskey could drown out the voice, reminding him of his ineptitude in his position.

Failure.  A harsh word.  The harshest to his ears.  He was a failure as a friend, a godfather, as protector… and within the confines of this house, never a home for him, he was constantly reminded of his failures as a son.  How often had he been told so?

Sirius was good for nothing but this wretched house which he could give to the Order.  His was naught but to sit in the darkest corner of the kitchen with his whiskey- the bottle close to his knee- the constant reminder of what failure means: living death, futility.

Perhaps this was all futile.

₪₪₪₪

Nightfall.  Witching hour for the superstitious.  The hour for those who defy death, for far away, a similar gathering was taking place.  Followers of another powerful wizard had come together, summoned by he whom they revered, identically dressed in pitch robes and featureless masks, forming a circle unbroken.

Severus Snape stood among these men and women, unidentifiable, but for his height, though everyone knew who he was.  The Dark Lord's spy.  Snape wrapped his haughtiness about himself like his cloak, defying any to speak to him or meet his eye who was not in the Dark Lord's inner-circle.  Tonight was the night- the night his screams would echo through the still air.  His haughtiness and his cloak were hiding him so he could mentally prepare.

_"I must tell him tonight, Albus.  I cannot risk not being summoned tomorrow."_

_"I understand, Severus.  I had only hoped it would not be necessary."_

_"What shall I tell him?"_

_"Simply that Harry is missing."_

_"Albus-"_

_"Nothing more, Severus.  Nothing more."_

_"Do you honestly believe-?"_

_"Nothing more, Severus."_

"Severus?  What news from Hogwarts?"

Lowering his head to the appropriate level of acquiescence, Snape stepped forward, daring not raise his eyes above the hem of the Dark Lord's cloak.  His mind was cleared of all but the information he was to give.

"The Potter boy is missing, My lord, and has been since he left the school."  He lowered his head even further into submission, awaiting the reaction.

"Is that so?"  The hem of his cloak moved closer as the Dark Lord approached.  Snape braced himself.

"Yes, My Lord."

"And what does that Muggle-loving fool think of this- situation?"  Yet, the tone of his voice denoted no curiosity in Dumbledore.  He was fishing for something.

"He is out of his mind, My Lord, searching for the boy."

Eternal silence made more terrifying by the Dark Lord's slow trek around the subservient Potions Master.  Snape struggled to keep his mind cleared of all thoughts but the information he was to share.  

Reveal nothing.

"What do _you_ think of this information, Severus?"

"My Lord?"  Where was he going with this?

"Do you believe this information you have brought to me?"

"I believe that Dumbledore believes it, My Lord."

A pause.

"Well answered, Severus-"

Thank the gods for that.

"-however, the information you bring me is false."

Before a thought could form in Snape's head, his body was screaming out in pain.

₪₪₪₪

Albus Dumbledore sat at the head of the kitchen table, fingertips pressed together just in front of his nose, listening to the reports being made by the members of the Order of the Phoenix.  Essentially, everyone was reporting that they had nothing to report.  No further information could be found regarding Harry.  The poor boy's body could not be found.

"What about the prophecy?" Remus Lupin asked, raising his gaze from the scratches in the scrubbed table, to the aged face of his former headmaster.

"We must continue to be sure it is kept safe at all-."

"Why?"  Sirius had pulled himself out of his drunken stupor long enough to interrupt the head of the Order.

"Why?"  Dumbledore repeated.

"Why keep it safe?" he asked more bitterly.  "Voldemort won.  Harry's dead.  Why bother keeping a bottled memory safe?  What's the point?"

"The point?"

"Yes, the _point_."  He rose unsteadily to his feet, an action mirrored by Lupin, who also rose, his eyes trained on his friend.  "What is the point in protecting the prophecy?"  He looked around at the other members of the Order, shocked into silence by his behavior.  "We couldn't even protect a fifteen year old boy from being beaten to death by a filthy Muggle."

"Sirius-"

"Stay out of this, Remus."   

"Sirius, sit down before you say something you will regret."  His eyes strayed uncomfortably toward Tonks, who was staring open-mouthed at her cousin.

"The _boy_ you've put all of your faith in is dead.  Almost everyone from the first Order is dead or crazy.  What exactly are we accomplishing except to shorten our own lives?"

"If we do not stand up to Voldemort, Sirius, who will?"  Dumbledore's blue-gray eyes held the deep blue eyes of his former student, holding him as if they were the only two in the room, in a quiet conversation before a roaring fire.  He raised not his voice, nor allowed anger to permeate his words.  "Cornelius Fudge?  Do you trust him with your life?"

"I don't trust myself with my life!" Sirius cried, flinging his glass of whiskey at the wall and charging from the room as the glass and its contents shattered.  Remus moved to follow, but was still by Dumbledore.

"Let him go, Remus.  He is grieving.  Let him grieve.  However," he continued, looking around the room, and especially at Remus and the Weasleys, "limit the liquor to which he has access.  I realize this is his house, but this behavior must not be allowed to continue, for his own health and safety."

₪₪₪₪

When the pain had subsided enough to become conscious again of his surroundings, Snape lifted himself to his hands and knees, never daring to attempt standing or looking at the black robes of his Master.  He knew something, definitely more than Snape had told him, and Snape was being punished, but what did he know?

"My Lord, what have I done?"  He knew the Cruciatus Curse was coming again, even before it hit him, but he needed to discover what the Dark Lord knew.  Did he know of the boy's fate?  Or his location?

"My foolish Potions Master," the spector of a man hissed, "I discovered this information weeks ago from the Dementors.  And Lucius was kind enough to discover the boy's fate."  An eerie laugh escaped his throat, sending shivers down Snape's spine.  "Murdered by his Muggle relatives.  How Dumbledore must relish this, that the boy was killed by those he seeks to protect, as I'm sure he already knows.  He has no need to protect them any longer."

"My Lord?"  A white light flashed before Snape's eyes, as every nerve in his body exploded in pain.  His very bones seemed to be on fire as his body writhed uncontrollably on the ground.  Screaming rang in his ears, though he only realized later it was his own.  All he could be sure of was that his body was rebelling against him, and that he only wanted it all to end.  It was only when it again stopped abruptly that he realized his nose was bleeding, and had been for some time.  He turned his head to the side to cough up the bloody phlegm in his throat.

"Do you really believe I would allow them to live after they have taken what is only my right to have?" the Dark Lord spat.  "Those Mudbloods experienced a very long death.  Any who takes what is mine will be dealt the same.  Potter is dead.  Now, I want Dumbledore."  He paused, probably to survey the Death Eaters gathered around him.  "Let Severus' lesson be a lesson for all of you.  Information is to be timely and accurate.  Severus, next time, I will not be so kind."

Snape's scream caught in his throat, somewhere between complete agony and a need to breathe.  His muscles felt like they were tearing away from his bones.  His body no longer existed; only the pain sent to his brain in lightening flashes of torture and agony.  He was blinded again by white lights before everything fell to darkness.

₪₪₪₪

Dumbledore was sitting at his desk in deep thought when his Potions Master entered his office and, tossing his Death Eater mask on the desk, sunk into a chair, crossing his arms with his robes wrapped tightly around him.

"You're returning very late."

"We had a late night."

"How did it go?"

"The Dursleys are dead."

Dumbledore looked up suddenly, meeting the ink black eyes of his spy.

"He has learned Potter is dead," Snape continued.  "The Dursleys are no more."

"How?"

"Most likely, after a very long torture," the spy answered darkly.

"How did he find out?" Dumbledore reiterated.

"Why does it matter?" Snape asked irritably.  "Or did you seek to protect them after what they did?"

"Severus, did you-?"

"Were he a wizard, Dursley would have sent to Azkaban until he died.  This fate was more than he deserved."  He knew these words would anger the headmaster, the man he looked up to more than any other, but at this moment, after everything he had experienced this night, he did not care.  He believed fully what he stated.

"No one deserves torture, Severus.  And his wife and child were innocent-."

"Nobody is innocent, Albus!" he cried, his voice rising to a level he had never used with this man before.  "If there are any guilty people, it is them, for they did nothing to stop it!  They are guilty of weakness!"

"Weakness is not punishable by death, Severus!"  Anger seeped into the old man's eyes, the likes of which Snape had not seen directed toward himself since he first admitted to being a Death Eater.  "You, of all people, should understand that!"

"What I understand is that Dursley murdered our one real chance to defeat the Dark Lord, and for that he was killed."  He was standing now, towering over his mentor, the man who had trusted him so long ago when none should have.  "He kept a wizard child caged like an animal and beat him to death.  I cannot feel sorry for his fate.  Had I the chance myself-."

"Do not finish that statement, Severus," Dumbledore warned.  "Do not make me question what side you are on."

Snape stared stonily at the headmaster.

"You question my side?"

"I told you specifically to inform Voldemort of nothing more than that Harry was missing.  You handed him a Muggle family, Harry's family, and as to their deaths-."

"I told him exactly what you wished me to, that Potter was missing."  He reached out with a badly shaking hand, the only after-affect of the curses he had withstood that he had not been able to conceal, and grabbed his mask from the desk.  "He had already learned the truth, and the Dursleys were dead before I was ever summoned."

Dumbledore's eyes, however, were on Snape's thin hand, gripping the mask, and he wondered that he did not notice before, even when it was concealed within the younger man's robes, so pronounced were the tremors.    

"Why did he torture you?" he asked more quietly.

"For bringing him inaccurate information," Snape answered in an angry, but more controlled voice.  There was no need to add who had bid him to repeat that information.  The hurt look in the headmaster's eyes was enough to know he understood the implication.  Snape turned and, without being dismissed, swept across the room toward the door.  Opening the heavy door, he turned once more to the Head of the Order.  "Never question my allegiance, Albus."  He held the old man's eyes for as long as he dared.  "I would take my own life before I would willingly give it back to _him_."  Thus, he left Dumbledore to sink slowly into his chair, his head in his hands, to reflect on the words he had said to the man who risked so much for the Order, as the door across the room shut with a soft _thunk._  

*  *  *

Very angsty chapter here.  I think it's my favorite so far.  I purposely tried to parallel the two meetings in this one.  Is it confusing?  I think it worked very nicely to lead up to the confrontation between Snape and Dumbledore at the end.  I think that in order for it to work, Dumbledore had to be worried/preoccupied with the Sirius confrontation earlier in the chapter.  Did it work?  Was it believable?  I feel like I really hit Snape in this one… his parts just flowed onto the paper (well, computer screen).

As for Sirius, people complained that I didn't portray his anger in the last chapter.  That was because I already had this one planned.  And before you can say he is ooc, I simply took the Christmas-time Sirius from OoTP and pushed it to the extreme, and here he is.  He's drunk, he's pissed, and he wants someone to blame for Harry's death.  Is it too much?


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: For those of you who keep coming back for the Ron/Hermione aspect of this story, I'm deliberately taking it slow.  First, I can't stand it when people suddenly announce that they're together and dating and give absolutely no reason for it… or the reason is absolutely ludicrous.  The whole "I dreamt about him last night so I must love him," is _so_ middle school (if you are in middle school and wrote that in a story, mea culpa), as is anything where they just 'realize' that they're in love.  Imagination, people!  Yes, Rowling definitely gave us something to chew at, but not enough for them to just jump in. (Sorry about the rant.)  Second, this burgeoning relationship will be integral to the story later on (no, it will NOT become a romance).

For those of you who do not like the Ron/Hermione aspect, see the second explanation above.  I PROMISE, I am not writing a romance.  I am NOT writing this just to get those two together.  And _they_ will not become the central story, but the relationship they create will be _important._

I hope I didn't give too much away…

Anyone else curious where the Boy-Who-Lived got to?

I'm gonna go look for him.

You read on.

September first came much too quickly for the students of Hogwarts.  Summer holiday was over, and with it, the freedom of unplanned days and uncompleted homework.  For Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, it was also time to face that their worst fears were true.  Harry was really gone.

Feeling claustrophobic in the Prefects' car, Ron and Hermione had escaped as soon as possible into a car further from the raucous conversations of returning students.  Ron convinced two First Years to move with some other new students on the pretense of meeting new friends, and quickly claimed the newly emptied car.  The two Gryffindor Prefects stowed their luggage on a top rack, then settled into silence in the suddenly empty-feeling car.  Ron stared bitterly at the shiny Prefect badge on his robes, wondering, not for the first time, if it were his only because of Harry's death.

 "So this is it," Hermione said softly.  "He's really not coming.  How- how could we not have known?"  Her voice cracked just a little, and she lowered her eyes as Ron had seen her do many times over the summer when she didn't want it noticed that she was going to cry.  Ron moved so he was sitting next to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

"Come on, 'Mione.  We both knew this would happen."  

"I keep expecting to see the door open and Harry come in."  

Ron tried to smile reassuringly, but deep down, knew it was not true.  He was just- gone.  

Hermione laid her head on his shoulder, as she had also done many times during the past month.  They had had to comfort and reassure each other so many times over their friend's disappearance and subsequent death, that their close proximity wasn't strange to them.  It was, afterall, comforting.  Even when Ron reached over and took her hand, gently rubbing his thumb over her fingers, neither was discomfited.  

At least, not until the door of their compartment was thrown open and a voice bellowed:

"Blimey!  It's true!"

Ron and Hermione jumped, quickly separating on the bench as Neville Longbottom and Dean Thomas piled into the small compartment with them.  Several other students were crowded around the door.

"Harry's really not on the train?  He's not coming back?"  Neville looked at both of them imploringly.  "Where is he?"

Ron glanced over at Hermione, who gave an imperceptive shake of her head.  Ron understood.  Let Dumbledore explain it.  He gave the only answer he could without lying.

"We haven't heard from him."

"Well I heard that You-Know-Who came after him again," Lavender volunteered from outside the door.  "And that he had to go into hiding."

"The Ministry has him for Cedric's murder," someone else yelled, though the occupants couldn't see who it was.  Whoever it was, several looks were shot in their direction just outside the door.

"Maybe he ran away," someone else offered.  "After all that stuff in the Daily Prophet.  Or maybe he really is crazy-."  The student, a Third Year Hufflepuff, looked suddenly uncomfortable, as did several other students gathered around the door. 

"My father says he's dead," Draco Malfoy announced, pushing his way through the crowd, his own Prefect badge causing several to move for him, and into the small compartment.  "Killed by one weak Muggle."   He smiled sadistically at Hermione and Ron.  "Didn't you two look sweet all cuddled up together?  Poor poverty stricken Weasley and his Mudblood-."

The rest of the statement went unfinished as several students, including Ron and Dean, pulled out their wands and stunned him.  He fell against Neville, who pushed his limp body out the door where it was passed along by the crowd.

"Malfoy!" Fred exclaimed from further on.  "Nice of you to join us!"  This was followed by a chorus of laughter and heads turning to see what the Weasley twins and Jordan Lee were up to.  Everyone snickered in the hallway, then turned their attention back to Ron and Hermione.  They wanted to know what had happened to Harry.

"We don't know," Hermione told them.  "Honest.  We haven't heard from him."

"But you must have heard _something_.  I thought you guys were best friends," Parvati Patil said, not letting up.

A look crossed Ron's face, that plainly stated, 'So did we,' but he said nothing.  Eventually, the students wandered off, finding that the rumors were more fun than the facts.  Only Neville and Dean remained.  Neville slid the door shut.

"So really, what happened to him?" Dean asked, lowering his voice.

"You don't really think You-Know-Who got him, do you?"  Neville's voice wavered just a little as he asked the question.

"Not that we've heard," Ron answered without thinking

"So you have heard something?" Dean prodded.

"You know as much as we do," Hermione explained.  "Harry's not on the train.  We haven't heard from him all summer."  Her voice cracked again, and Ron laid a hand on the back of her shoulder.  His gesture was thanked with a small smile from Hermione.

Neville watched the exchange with round eyes, though Dean seemed not to notice.  Neville's eyes grew wider and wider with each passing second, until he finally stood up and pointed at Hermione.  

"How can you sit here and do that?  Harry's missing, so you suddenly jump to his best friend?  It's sickening!"

Hermione's mouth dropped open.  Dean looked confusedly between Neville and Ron and Hermione, but Ron stood up.

"Don't be a dunderhead, Neville.  Hermione and Harry never dated!"

"You didn't really believe the things that were in the paper about us, did you?"  Hermione, her eyes shining with tears, looked quietly up at Neville, who seemed at a loss for words.  He sat down quickly.  

"No.  I guess not."

Hermione reached out and took his hand.

"You know I would never do anything to hurt Harry.  All those things that were in the paper last year were lies.  Harry and I were never going out.  And if we were, I'd never have cheated on him.  You know me, Neville.  You know I wouldn't."

"Yeah," he answered in a low voice.  "I know that."

"Wait a minute," Dean said, straightening up in his seat and looking at the two Gryffindors across the compartment from him.  "Are you two dating?"

Ron and Hermione were stunned.  Neither seemed able to come up with an answer.  They looked silently at each other, than at Dean.

"No."  The answer was in perfect unison.

Ron wearily made his way up to the Fifth Year dormitory in Gryffindor Tower.  Professor Dumbledore had made no mention of Harry during his announcements, much to the students' dismay.  It probably only meant that he had no real information for them, which meant they didn't have proof yet of his death.  As a result, he and Hermione had been pulled in opposite directions after the feast and interrogated by the curious students before they could break away fro their Prefect duties.  Actually, they had separated before that, while going into the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony.  

'Probably for the better,' he thought.  'No need feeding more rumors.'  It was odd though.  After Dean's innocent question, they were suddenly very shy around each other.  After Dean went off to find Seamus, Hermione buried herself in a book while Ron and Neville played Exploding Snap together to pass the time on the train, much to Hermione's consternation.  The explosions were much louder in the small compartments.         

But now the night was over, all the First Years were safely in their dormitories, and Ron could collapse into his bed, hopefully awakening to find that this had all been a bad dream, and that Harry was sound asleep in his bed.  He pushed open the door to find Neville, Seamus, and Dean standing just inside the room.  They quieted when he entered.  

"What's going on?" Ron asked, wondering if Harry's bed had been removed.  He didn't even want to think about it.  He pushed past them and took in a sight that made the hair stand up on his arms.

Harry's trunk was at the foot of his bed.  Right there, on the front, were his initials: HP.  Ron stepped forward, and with a shaking hand, opened the trunk.  Inside were Harry's belongings: his cloak, his books, even his wand.  He looked quickly around the room.

"I thought you said Harry wasn't on the train," Neville said, looking hurt.

"He wasn't," came the answer.  "He couldn't have been."

"Well, maybe he just didn't want to sit with you," Dean offered.  "I mean, after all that stuff that happened last year-."

"Impossible," Ron murmured absently, shutting the lid of Harry's trunk and sitting on top of it.  He looked around the room, but his eyes seemed to take in nothing.  "It's- it's just impossible."

"It s'not impossible.  He's prob'ly embarrassed after all that stuff in the papers."  Seamus' voice grew quieter as all eyes fell on him.  "I mean, he can't properly show his face after all that, can he?"

"No, I mean, it's impossible because-."  Ron looked up suddenly at the other three boys, watching him expectantly.  They didn't know anything- not a clue.  They had no idea Harry was dead, and probably didn't even believe You-Know-Who was back.  They had had their summer holidays like every other under-aged wizard, not worrying about anything but whether they had finished their summer homework.

Ron jumped to his feet so quickly, he surprised the other boys.

"Where you going?" Dean asked as he strode toward the door.

"I have to see Dumbledore," Ron answered before disappearing through the door.

Snape was standing in Dumbledore's office a half an hour later, trying with great difficulty to mask his anger as he waited for the Headmaster to enter from his private chambers.  It was rare that he disagreed so totally with the man's decisions, but this time, this time he was going too far.

"Severus?  Is something wrong?"  Dumbledore asked, as he hurried down the stairs in his office.

"It seems so, Headmaster," came the deliberate answer.  "I just ran into a very distraught Weasley in the corridors."

"Virginia?"

"Ronald," he answered.  "It seems Potter's things are in the dormitory."  He waited a very long moment for some kind of reaction, but receiving none, continued.  "_Why_ exactly are Potter's things in the dormitory?"

"We'll call it a feeling," Dumbledore answered. 

"What feeling?"

"A feeling that Mr. Potter will be joining us very soon."

So shocked was Snape by this statement, he allowed it to show on his face before he could school himself and replace it with a scowl.

"Headmaster, you know I have every respect for your sanity-."

"For which I should thank you."

"-But this is, is simply cruel."

Dumbledore smiled as he slid behind his desk.

"Ah, to be called cruel by Professor Snape.  I'm sure the students would be impressed."

"I'm not playing games here, Albus!  By tomorrow morning, every student in this school will know what happened to Potter, and you're putting his school things out as if he'll be here any day!  You'll drive his roommates mad, if not from grief, then from believing the boy is still alive!"  His voice had continued to crescendo until Snape was practically screaming at the Headmaster, and he only realized it when the office was overwhelmed by silence after his last word.

"Are you saying you care if his Gryffindor roommates go mad?"

"I care if you go mad."  He stared at the headmaster, wondering if he really was sane.  "Why didn't you make the announcement?"

"I will not lie to them," came the simple answer, to which Snape threw his hands in the air.

"Albus, all of the evidence- all of the _logical _evidence-."

"Severus," Dumbledore interrupted softly, "it is not _here_ that I believe Harry will be returning," he said, touching his fingers to his head. "It is _here._"  He laid his hand solemnly on his heart.

Snape sunk defeated into a chair, pressing his finger onto the pounding blood vessel in the middle of his forehead to stave off the growing headache. 

"What if you're wrong, Albus?  What if you're deluding yourself?  What then?"

"I'm not, Severus."  He smiled at Snape's heavy sigh.  "You mentioned evidence a moment ago."  Snape looked up.  "We have yet to find a body."  He smiled as if this were evidence enough for the boy's continuance of life, but the smile faded slowly from his lips.  "What is it you really came up here for, Severus?"

Snape closed his eyes, damning himself for allowing his mind to slip.  Of course Dumbledore caught it.  His thoughts were practically screaming out at the headmaster.

"For about the millionth time in my life, I am questioning your sanity."  He caught the old man's eye.  "And for the first time, I am _seriously_ questioning your sanity."

"You think I've made a mistake."

"I think you've made several mistakes.  This is just one of them."  He pressed forward his memory of the last summons he had received, allowing it to play loud and clear in his mind for the headmaster.  Every scream, every flash of pain was there to be seen.

"I'm sorry, Severus.  I'm sorry you had to go through that.  It was never my intention, and had I any idea that Voldemort had found the Dursleys-."  He watched Snape sink a little lower into his chair, though seemingly without crouching or slouching or sliding down the cushion.  "And I am more than sorry I ever questioned your loyalties, even for an instant.  I know that it is no small burden I have given you."  He looked to the younger man meaningfully, the sincerity of his words, palpable.  

"I know."  He stood, his eyes still locked with Dumbledore's, though they were not so hard and angry as when he had entered.  "May I be dismissed, sir?"

"Of course.  Good night."  He watched the Potions Master glide across the room and disappear through the door before closing his eyes and whispering, "Thank you, Severus."

Note: This chapter was originally 9 pages long (twice what it is now) but I cut it in half because I didn't want what's to come to overpower this second disagreement between Snape and Dumbledore.  Sorry, you'll have to wait for me to post the second half before we find out whether or not Dumbledore is sane.

BTW, was it clear what Dumbledore thanked Snape for?  Or am I leaving too much to "show, don't tell"?


	9. Chapter 9

A/N:  This chapter was posted soon after ch. 8.  I originally had them written as one long chapter, but found the other to have a very powerful ending where it was, and I didn't want that lost in all of _this._  Hopefully you'll see what I mean.  If you haven't read that first, go.

Note: I tried uploading this right after chapter 8, but ff.net wouldn't let me.  Sorry you had to wait!!

Dr. Edward Thompson quickly made his way through the crisp white corridors of St. Luke's Hospital.  He had made his final rounds of the evening and was now on his way to his office to await the arrival of Dr. Anya Saluria, a colleague in the same field, though with very different patients.

            He had met Anya in medical school nearly forty years ago and noticed right away that she was different from all the other students.  There was just something about her that he had to know her better.  It turned out, his instinct was right.  Anya was a witch in a very long line of witches.  Magical blood, she called it.  One of the few who attended university with non-Magical people (Muggles, as she had told him once in a fit of laughter).  They were friends from that point on, calling on each other for opinions in their respective hospitals, though it had been quite a long time since she had called him to St. Mungo's.  Today, she was needed at St. Luke's.

            Dr. Thompson reached his office at eight p.m. on the dot in time to see Anya suddenly appear in his office with a soft pop.  She, like him, was dressed in a white lab coat and a bright smile.  Her long silvery hair was pinned up at the base of her neck, though her face looked years younger.

            "Edward!" she exclaimed, clasping his hand.  "It's been such a long time!  I nearly fell over when I got your letter."

            "Hello, Anya," he greeted her, kissing her lightly on the cheek.  He looked her over and found that, except for the gray hair, she hardly looked any different than when they first met.  "I do wish this were a social visit," he said shaking his head.  "I might ask you to go dancing with me."

            "I will treat that as an invitation," she said with a smile.  "Perhaps we can invite your wife."

            Dr. Thompson chuckled low in his throat before Anya turned serious.

            "So, who's the patient you wanted me to see?  It's not another claiming to see flying cars and witches on broom sticks, is it?"

            "No, it's a boy who was placed in our care two weeks ago by a family doctor out in Surrey."

            "What do you know about him?"

            "Not much.  He won't speak to us."  He grabbed a file from his desk and motioned for Dr. Saluria to follow him.  They walked slowly through the quiet corridors so he could give her all the information before reaching the boy's room.  "I get the distinct feeling that he's like you."  He looked at her pointedly over his wire-rimmed glasses.

            "Like me?"  She frowned.  "Tell me about him."

            "He was found in a field by Dr. Albert Snyder, severely injured and wearing only pajamas and no shoes.  It was suspected he was a victim of a hit-and-run, a runaway, at first, but Snyder found that the injuries were more current with an abuse situation:  mild concussion, some broken ribs, several wrist and hand bones, his collarbone.  The tell-tale was a spiral fracture in his arm."

            "As if it had been twisted?" 

            Dr. Thompson nodded.

            "And the distinct marks of a heel on his torso and hand.  His face was swollen, as if he'd been hit several times and a large knot on his head.  The boy was in pretty bad shape.  Didn't even seem to know what had happened to him.  Wouldn't tell his name or his parents' name.  Nothing.  It didn't seem to be a life or death situation, so Snyder and his wife kept him at their house until he woke.  At that point, Snyder called us, and after a number of tests, he was then declared 'disturbed.'  A suspected schizophrenic."

            "But you disagree.  What were his symptoms?"

            "That, Anya, is why I summoned you.  The symptoms of schizophrenia, I'm sure, you'll notice when you go into the room.  It's the others that concern me."  He stopped in the corridor and opened his file.  "First off, his room just _feels_ different since he was moved in there, like the air is charged.  Second, = all the monitoring equipment in his room has been destroyed," he began, counting off on his fingers.  "Electricians blame it on faulty wiring, but we've never had problems until the boy was placed in that room.  It just exploded.  Also, since the boy received his first shot here, any syringes that enter that room burst for no apparent reason.  And, he screams at night about people being killed and tortured, whether he's sleeping or awake.  Sometimes it's just screaming.  Other times, we hear words, strange words, like he's speaking another language."  He glanced down at the file.  "We've heard: crusho, impiro, evada something, and vole-mort.  Vole-mort seems to be the most common."  He glanced up to see Dr. Saluria looking very pale and weak.  "Anya, are you alright?"  He had never seen her blanche so much at simple words.

            "Voldemort?  He was actually saying that?  Voldemort?"

            "Yes.  Does it mean something to you?  Is it a-" he lowered his voice, "-spell?"

            "The others are," she explained in a hushed voice.  "But the last.  It is a name no one dares speak.  If this boy is invoking that name, he is a danger to everyone here."

            "But he's just a boy- no more than fourteen or fifteen."

            "That name is the name of a very powerful and dangerous wizard."  She looked at him curiously.  "Fourteen or fifteen?  He shouldn't be old enough-.  Edward, where is he?  Let me see him."

            Dr. Thompson motioned toward the door across the hallway.  Dr. Saluria glanced in through the window to see a dark haired boy rocking himself on the bed, his knees drawn to his chest, hiding the sling that protected his right arm.

            "You said there is no electric equipment?  Nothing that can record our conversation?"

            "No.  Nothing will work in that room."

            "Good.  Edward, you stay out here."  She slipped into the room and instantly was hit by the concentration of magic in the room.  This boy was most definitely a wizard, possibly quite powerful.  She watched the boy for a few seconds, though he seemed not to notice her.  She stepped forward.

            "What's your name, boy?"

            He ignored her, continuing rocking on his bed, one hand obscuring his face behind the long black hair that hung almost to the tip of his nose.  She bent down to try and catch his attention and gasped.  His hand was not merely covering his face.  The boy had been digging his nails into the skin on his forehead.  She could see the blood on his fingers, forehead, and face.

            "Get out of my head.  Get out.  Stop it.  Stop it.  Get out," he was demanding in an oddly soft voice.

            Dr. Saluria gently took his wrist and pulled his hand away so she could see him more clearly, wondering to herself why he had not been restrained from this activity.  His thin pale face and small nose were smeared with his own blood.  From behind his long clumps of hair, she saw a dull green eye flit up to her face before his wrist flexed and was pulled from her grasp.  Without hesitation, his hand returned to its previous pursuit of tearing at his own skin.  She gripped his wrist more firmly and pulled it away again, holding it more tightly as he fought against her.  With her other hand, she moved his hair out of the way to examine the deep scratches and gouges he had caused.  Then, she reached into her coat and removed her wand.  The boy fought even harder as his eyes fell on the wand in her hand, trying to twist from her grip and pull away.  She held him firmly and began healing the self-inflicted wounds.  After several moments, she replaced the wand and once again swept the hair aside to examine her work.

            "How can this be?" she gasped, examining the wounds more closely.  A number of newly healed scratches crossed his forehead, but in the midst of them all, as if it had been his target, stood a much older jagged scar, closely resembling a thunderbolt.  Hands shaking, she pushed all of his hair from his face and looked at him clearly for the first time.

            "Harry Potter?"

            She was met with a stare full of loathing.

            "Do you know your name?"

            Nothing.

            "Can you tell me anything?  What do you remember?"  She was feeling almost hysterical at her discovery.

            He continued staring back at her.  Suddenly, she felt a shock ripple through her body from her grip on the boy's wrist.  He screamed, threw his hands to his head, and gouged his nails at his forehead, continuing to disfigure his scar.  He resumed murmuring to himself, as if he'd already forgotten she had been there. 

            Startled, she stood and backed away from the bed until the she had reached the door and could slip out.  The boy didn't even notice.

            "Anya?"  Dr. Thomas was waiting for her, eyeing her carefully as she attempted to compose herself.  "Are you all right?  Do you know him?"

            "I do," she answered, grabbing his arm to pull him close.  "That boy is indeed a Magical-born, and he should not be here.  I am going to contact someone who can help him, but no one must see him until I return."

            Her eyes were almost wild as she spoke, though her voice was low and even.

"What is it?  Who is he?"

"For me, for people like me, he's a hero," she told him in a low voice.  Edward would have thought she was joking had her face not looked so serious, though distracted.  "There have been stories in the papers that he was- but I never believed- this certainly explains a great deal."

"Anya?"

"Edward, keep an eye on him.  Don't let anyone see him.  Understand?"

He barely nodded before she pulled a wand from her pocket and disappeared before his eyes.

₪₪₪₪

Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, was called away from a dinner party he was hosting in his own home, by Oderic, his House Elf.  The Minister was gone for some time when one of his guests knocked on the door of his personal office and was called forth.

"Is all well, Cornelius?" the man asked, walking slowly toward the desk where the Minister was perusing a message sent to him by owl.  Fudge looked up at his guest, a slight smile on his lips.

"It seems a Dr. Saluria has requested an emergency portkey to be made for St. Mungos for an under-aged patient."

"Pulled away from a dinner party for a portkey request?  How mundane."  The guest sat across from the Minister.  "It seems I was correct in assuming the Ministry would fall apart without you," he drawled.

The Minister's smile broadened at the unabashed flattery.

"Rather, it's the reason for the request that drew me from the party," he answered.  "This will be a great blow to Dumbledore.  Pity if this should get out to the media."  If possible, the smile grew.   

 "Really?"

"It seems Harry Potter has been found in a Muggle Mental Institution, and Dr. Saluria would like to have him transferred into her care."

"You don't say?" the guest answered, sounding melodramatically aghast at the information.  "Harry Potter?  Insane?  Who would have thought?"  The sarcasm was heavy in these words as the Minister handed the letter to the guest as proof.  As his eyes swept over the parchment in hand, Lucius Malfoy felt that Christmas had come early this year.

*  *  *

My sister is so pissed at me for doing this.

"A mental institution?  How can you put him in a _mental institution_?  You have him acting all _demented_!"  There was actually a lot more to it with several explicatives, but then, she is one of the ones who were mad at me for killing the poor boy.  What better place to send him after all he's seen and experienced?  And for those of you who may think I gave in to peer pressure by bringing him back, I had this planned from the start.  What fun would it be to just kill the poor boy from the start?  How many more chapters of pure death angst can I write without my readers rebelling?  But don't worry.  As you might gather from this last paragraph, the problems are far from over for our little friend.  Stay tuned!

As for this story becoming a 40 ch. Saga, that won't happen.  I don't have time for that as school starts soon, and I have lesson plans to create.  I have this entire story planned out (literally, there's a checklist of chapters in front of me as we speak).  Even if I add, it will not be over 20 chapters.  Drawing out the whole "Harry's Missing" thing is a conscious effort actually written into my plan from before the first chapter was written.  I just think it's more fun when the reader begins to feel as frustrated as the characters.  

Thank you.


	10. Chapter 10

            Note: Chapter 8 and 9 were published within hours of each other.  If you have not read both, do that now.  

Arthur Weasley found himself hurrying through the Ministry's labyrinth, trying with great difficulty to not look like he was rushing anywhere.  The number one rule for Ministry employees in the Order: do not draw attention to yourself.  As a result, he found himself muttering to himself as he waited for the lift, 'No need to hurry. No emergency.  It's not like there are lives at stake.  Just the life of a young man who may or may not be the key to defeating You-Know-Who!'  He was practically hopping up and down when the lift finally stopped on his floor.  The doors opened and he stepped in, followed quickly by a young man whose name he could not remember, but whom he had recently been introduced to.

            "In a hurry, Mr. Weasley?" the young man asked.

            "No, no, not really," he answered, but catching the young man's eye, realized he was unconvincing.  "I was just getting some late night work in when I realized I was supposed to take my wife out tonight.  I'm hoping she won't notice I'm late."

            "I know how that goes," he answered with a knowing smile.  "It's always life or death."

            'You have no idea, little man,' Weasley thought.

            Not an hour before, Arthur Weasley had been spending a late evening in his cramped little office finishing up some paper work when Rupert Grigsby stepped in to chat.  Arthur had only been half listening when he heard the key words: Harry Potter.

            "I'm sorry," he interrupted, "what was that you just said?"  Suddenly, Grigsby had his undivided attention.

            "I said, I heard the queerest news about Harry Potter today.  Not sure if I believe it myself, but then, these days kids are getting odder and odder.  Do you know that I went to dinner yesterday with my wife and there was a young lady with fuscia hair at the next table.  Of course, all I could do was stare."     

            "Rupert, the news.  What was it?"

            "Why, that he was in a mental institution, and a Muggle one at that.  I figured that if anyone knew the truth, it was you.  Don't your sons go to school with the boy?"

            "Yes," he answered tersely.  "Where did you hear this?  Was it in the paper?"

            "The _Daily Prophet_?  Oh, no, though I'm sure they'd like to get their hands on it.  No, I heard it from Gerald Rushwing in the Portkey Office.  Seems a doctor from St. Mungo's, Sol-something, found him and wanted to transfer him into her care right away.  Can't say I blame her, considering who he is and all.  Well, you know there's a waiting period for Portkeys, but this doctor (Salaria, was it?), she had Gerald owl the Minister at home, during a dinner party to get permission."

            "The Minister?"

            "Well, yes, to get a rush on it.  But I don't know if it really can be Potter, because Minister Fudge denied the Rush Request."

            Unfortunately, Arthur knew exactly why he would deny to have it rushed.  Fudge was going to make sure the media got a whiff of the story first.  And if that was made public, You-Know-Who would find him in an instant.  Arthur knew he had to get out of there quick.  He had glanced casually at his watch, then bolted out of his chair as if it were on fire, ranting that it was after seven-thirty and about his wife killing him for missing dinner and other such nonsense to cover his rush from the office.

            "So Arthur," Rupert asked as Weasley gathered his cloak.  "Do you think it's true?  About Harry Potter?"

            "Rubbish," Arthur answered, sweeping out the door.  "I heard from my son this morning," he lied, "and he mentioned Potter being at school.  Probably just a case of mistaken identity."

            "Oh, oh yes.  Quite right."   

₪₪₪₪

            Snape apparated in a small copse of trees and began the short hike toward the usual meeting spot.  He was not surprised to hear others apparating around him, but couldn't help but wonder why they were being summoned.  From the looks of it, nor could anyone else.  Several Death Eaters were walking in pairs, whispering softly underneath the hoods of their black cloaks.  What was more alarming was that it seemed to be select people who had been summoned, perhaps eight in all.  Was he being summoned for a raid?

            The answer came quickly enough when he was called forth by the Dark Lord.  Lowering his head appropriately, Snape stepped forward, fully expecting to be punished for something or other.

            "Yes, My Lord?"

            "Severus, I've heard some very interesting news today.  Can you guess what it is?"

            Alarms went off in his head, but Snape managed to keep himself controlled.  If he had been found out, everyone would have been summoned, so he could be made an example.  It's something else.

            "No, My Lord."  His body reflexively tensed, expecting to be Crucio'ed.

            "It seems the information you offered to me earlier this week was correct.  Harry Potter was, indeed, missing."  A moment's silence.  "Would you like an apology?"

            Were he not bowing before the most powerful Dark Lord in a century, Snape might have actually laughed… if it wouldn't mean his certain and very painful demise.  The Dark Lord certainly had a sense of humor.

            "No, My Lord."

            "Excellent, my loyal Potions Master.  Rejoin the fold."  Snape stepped back into the circle and raised his head again so he could see the others.  "Lucius, in his close position with the Minister, has learned a very significant piece of information.  Harry Potter is alive and in a Muggle institution."  Snape thought for a moment he was imagining this, but in glancing at Malfoy standing next to the Dark Lord, found that he looked shaken, as if he had been punished for having brought false information about the boy's death.  "Fortunately for him, he convinced the idiot Fudge to leave Potter there longer, on the pretense that the media should find out before he is moved.  In reality, it should be very easy for you, my Death Eaters, to locate the boy and bring him to me.  You will find Dr. Saluria of St. Mungo's and learn Potter's whereabouts, and you will find Potter."       

₪₪₪₪

            Arthur Weasley apparated to a patch of grass and looked up at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, then ran across the pavement to a worn black door and quietly let himself inside.  He was greeted by peeling wallpaper and a threadbare carpet leading down a long hallway.  Weasley hurried through a door into the kitchen to find Lupin, Black, Tonks, and Moody.

            "He's alive!  Harry's alive!" Arthur exclaimed as soon as the door had shut behind him.  The occupants of the table looked up at him in surprise at his unexpected outburst, and Arthur could only stare stupidly back at him, until Lupin leapt to his feet.

            "What do you mean he's alive, Arthur?  Have you seen him?"

            "Where is he?" Sirius demanded, pulling out his wand to go rescue his godson at a word.

            "A hospital.  A Muggle hospital."  He proceeded to describe the conversation he had just had with Rupert Grigsby in his office.  The story took no more than five minutes to relate when the present members of the Order began developing a plan.

            "Arthur, you will come with Moody, Tonks, and myself to find this Dr. Solora," Lupin said as the others began rising from their seats, wands out.  "Sirius, stay here-."

            "Damn it, Remus!"

            "Stay here, Sirius."

            "Listen to Lupin, Black," Moody interjected.  

            "I will not!  I am going to find my godson!"  He was staring hard at Remus, daring him to disagree in his anger.  Lupin, controlled, bid the others to wait for him in the hallway.  When the door had shut, he turned back to his oldest friend.

            "Sit down, Sirius."

            "Remus-."

            "Damn it, Sirius, you are not going, and the longer I stand here arguing with you, the longer it will be before we retrieve Harry!  Now sit down!"  Neither man moved for a long moment.  Slowly, Sirius sunk back down into his chair.  Still not moving but to meet Sirius' eyes in his now lower position, Remus addressed his friend both quietly and forcefully.  "Sirius, despite our best efforts, you've been drinking everything you can get your hands on, and frankly, in this condition, I wouldn't take you to a schoolyard scrap, let alone a rescue mission.  You would only endanger us and your godson."  Sirius moved to speak, but was silenced by Lupin's upraised hand.  "We are going to retrieve Harry.  You will stay here and help Molly prepare a room.  Harry's been in Muggle care, so it's possible he will still be injured.  It is imperative that there is an appropriate room for him.  Do you understand the importance of that?"  Sirius nodded.  "Good.  I also need you to contact Dumbledore.  Tell him what has happened and where we've gone.  It's important, Sirius.  For Harry's sake, you must do this."  He waited just long enough to see the understanding in Sirius' eyes before going out to meet the others in the hallway.

₪₪₪₪

            "Dr. Saluria, what a lovely home you have here," Lucius drawled as Dr. Saluria entered her study, unsuspecting to find a gathering of Death Eaters there.

            "What?  What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.

            Snape, seated behind her desk on which Lucius leaned, merely watched the elderly woman as she took in the room, finally realizing what was happening.

            "Jove save me," she whispered under her breath, before more forcefully, "What are you doing in my home?"

            "I wanted to ask you a few questions," Lucius answered.  He walked around the room, examining the different awards and certificates on the walls before stopping directly in front of her.  "How interesting that you studied in a Muggle university, Anya.  Oh, pardon.  May I call you Anya?   How very _forward thinking_ of you."

            "What do you want?"

            "Potter.  I want Harry Potter, and you know where he is."

            Snape was stunned to see her eyes grow round, as he had half-expected the information to be false.  Her reaction, however, confirmed what Malfoy had learned: Potter was alive, and this woman knew where he was.

            "I don't know what you're talking about."  Snape observed her hand working very slowly into her sleeve.  

            _"Expelliarmus!"_  Her wand flew out of her hand and into Snape's outstretched palm.  Malfoy, however, was unfazed.

            "Really, Anya.  That was just stupid.  I had assumed a woman of your _obvious_ intelligence, having studied at a Muggle university, to have known better.  Tut tut.  What is the state of education these days?  _Crucio!_"

            Snape schooled himself to appear disinterested in Malfoy's torture of the old woman as he flipped through the files on her desk, all the while keeping an ear to the woman's frantic pleas, listening for any information she had.  All the while, his mind was working quickly to develop a plan.  When they finally found Potter, how would he get him out without getting either of them killed?  He most certainly could not allow him to be taken back to the Dark Lord.  

He picked up another file, wishing he'd had time to warn the Order (and hoping that someone at the Ministry had heard similar information), when his eyes fell on a note on the desk.  The letterhead revealed that it was from a Dr. Edward Thompson of St. Luke's Mental Institution.  Without picking up the note or making any movements which would draw attention away from the screaming doctor, he scanned the tiny scrawl.

_Anya,_

_Please come to my office this evening.  It is of the utmost importance._

_                                                                        Edward_

As if on cue, the woman began screaming.

"St. Luke's!  He's at St. Luke's!  Edward Thompson!"  A green flash and the screaming died instantly, followed by the dull thud of the woman's lifeless body falling to the floor.

"That wasn't so hard, now was it?" Lucius quipped.  "Gentlemen?  Shall we?"  Snape rose from the chair, sweeping imaginary dust from his robes just as the doorbell rang.  The Death Eaters' heads turned instantly toward the hallway, wands out.

"I believe we have what we came for," Snape asserted.  "We should find Potter.  I'm sure _you _do not wish to test the Dark Lord's wrath again, Lucius."  Malfoy sneered at the Potion's Master, but assented.

"Dr. Saluria?" came a faint voice from the wrong side of the front door that Snape recognized as Lupin.  

"We do not have time to deal with him," he hissed, motioning toward the door.  He dropped the file he was holding back onto the desk, but away from the note so it sat prominently in the center of the desk.  Hopefully, it would be found by the right people.  They disapparated.

₪₪₪₪

"Maybe she's not home?" Tonks suggested after several seconds of impatient waiting for the door to be answered.

"Too many lights on for nobody being home," Moody huffed, tapping his wand toward the locked door.  "_Alohomora._"  The lock clicked and Moody pushed it open.  "Wands out," he growled, glancing around the foyer.  "Something's not right here."  He motioned for everyone to remain silent, then split the group to search the house.  Arthur and Tonks headed upstairs, Lupin and Moody searched the down.  It didn't take long to find the body.

Lupin knelt next to the old woman, his fingers pressed to her throat in search of a pulse.

"Don't bother, Lupin," Moody told him grimly.  "Killing Curse."

"Death Eaters?" Lupin asked, less surprised than anxious.  Voldemort was searching for Harry as well.  And, they had a head start.

Moody simply nodded.  "Call down the others.  If the good doctor left a clue as to where Potter is, it'll be in this room."  He stooped and began picking up files that had fallen on the floor, glancing at the names on each, hoping she would have one for Potter.  Lupin returned moments later, followed by Weasley and Tonks, when Moody's eyes fell on a scrawled message on the desk.

"St. Luke's, eh?  Boys, we may have just found Potter."

₪₪₪₪

"Spread out, two to a floor," Lucius had told the Death Eaters after searching the now deceased Edward Thompson's office.  "Find Potter."  Snape had found an unmarked file near the top of the old man's pile, the notes inside making it clear who the occupant of that room was, though no names were included.  Third floor, room three-thirty-seven.  He made sure he claimed the third floor to search, and was now heading down a long corridor with Malfoy, silently checking the occupants of each room, checking names on doors and glancing through windows just to make sure it was not Potter, and hoping for a chance to slip away. 

The long hallway came to a T, with more rooms on each side.  Potter's room would be on the right.  

"We should split up," Snape suggested.  "You check the left, I'll check the right."  And hopefully Lupin will catch up soon enough.  

₪₪₪₪

Edward Thompson's office.  Another dead body.  The Death Eater's were certainly not attempting to cover their tracks.  They had obviously searched the office, and even now could have Harry.  Lupin's eyes quickly glossed over the top of the desk littered with open files and torn documents.  Something wasn't right.  One file sat on the edge, its corners perfectly aligned with the corner of the desk, as if it had been strategically placed.  All the others were haphazardly strewn about.

"Something wrong, Remus?"  Arthur asked, peering at him curiously.

"I get the feeling someone is leaving us clues." 

"As in a trap?"

"Quite possibly," he replied, picking up the folder.  Sure enough, inside was description enough to convince him it was Harry's file.  "Three-thirty-seven," he told them, tucking the file inside his robes.

₪₪₪₪

"Or perhaps we stay together," Malfoy answered coolly.  "I wouldn't want you taking the boy back to the Dark Lord all by yourself."

Snape shrugged indifferently and began walking to the rooms on the left.  Unfortunately, they didn't take long to search, as most were empty.  Reaching the end of the short hallway, they found a metal staircase.  They turned and headed toward the other hallway.  A whirring sound echoed through silent hallway.  

"Someone's in the lift," Malfoy pointed out.

"It may be one of the other pairs," Snape offered.

"Or a Muggle doctor making his rounds."

"You already killed the doctor."

"Perhaps there's another," he smirked back.  They waited patiently, but the lift did not stop on their floor.  Crossing to the opposite hallway, Malfoy began searching the rooms again.  Each step brought them closer and closer to Potter's room.  Three to go.  Two to go.

"What have we here?"

Snape glanced over Malfoy's shoulder and saw why the man's pale face lit up.  A dark haired teenager was sitting on the bed, his knees drawn up, rocking back and forth.

_"Stupify!"  _ Malfoy fell unceremoniously to the floor.  Snape didn't bother to look for whomever had stunned the man, though he was quite sure it hadn't been him.  Shouts echoed through the once silent corridors.  Lupin and his must have come up the stairs behind them.  Death Eaters had converged from the longer corridor.  Spells were being flung back and forth between both parties.  Amid the confusion, Snape slipped into the room and ran to the bed.  

"Potter?"  The boy didn't look up, but continued rocking himself, ignoring the man in the black robes.  "Potter!"  He grabbed the boy's wrist and received a look of pure loathing.  One dull green eye held him, the other hidden behind long hair.  Blood trickled down his forehead.  

Realizing he was still wearing his mask, Snape pulled it from his face and turned so the boy could see who he was.  

"There isn't much time, Potter.  I'm going to get you out of here."  He pulled a silver pocket watch from within his robes.  "This is a portkey.  It will take you to the school.  Do you understand?"  Nothing.  Just that unsettling stare.  Snape turned the dial until the second hand was on the one.  "Five seconds, Potter.  Hold on to it tightly."  He laid it in the boy's hand.

Potter's face softened from loathing to confusion.  He blinked at the Potions Master.

"Who are you?"

Before the question even registered in Snape's brain, Potter was gone, pulled into the tiny space that had been Snape's pocket watch.  The elder man stared unblinking at the empty air before him, thoughts swimming through his mind, each quite as plausible as that which preceded it.  

The voices in the hallway came nearer, ripping Snape from his thoughts.  He replaced his mask and turned, just in time to be hit in the chest with a spell.  His body crumpled to the floor.

₪₪₪₪

Weasley and Tonks still had their wands pointed at the Death Eater, even as his body crumpled to the floor, revealing an empty bed where they should have found Harry.  

"Now what?" Tonks asked.  "Shall we help Moody and Remus chase down the last of the baddies?"

"Look around first.  Be sure there's nowhere Harry might have hidden."

"There's nothing in here, Arthur.  If he were under the bed, we would see him from the door.  And that chair wouldn't hide an undernourished pixie, let alone a fifteen year old kid.  All we have here is Mr. Death Eater, and he doesn't seem to be in the mood to talk," she told him, kicking the unconscious Death Eater at her feet.

"Look around, Tonks," Arthur repeated patiently.  "We have to find him."  Looking took almost no time at all.  Tonks was right: there was nowhere for Harry to be.  The Death Eaters had gotten to him first.  The robed figure lying outside the door began to move again, but Arthur stunned him a second time and proceeded to tie him up.  It was then that Lupin and Moody appeared.

"Where's Harry?" Lupin asked as soon as he was inside the room.

"Gone," Arthur answered.  "They got here first."  This was punctuated by Tonks again landing a swift kick to the Death Eater at her feet.

Lupin's jaw hardened as he looked down at the robed figures on the floor, as if restraining himself from killing them outright.  His entire body tensed and he ceased to breathe for one long moment before closing his eyes and exhaling slowly.

"What now, Moody?" Lupin asked, his eyes still closed.  "Shall we alert the Ministry?  Have them pick up a few prisoners?"

Another kick by Tonks.

"No."  Moody was staring at the body at Tonks' feet.

"No what?" Lupin asked.

"No, we do not contact the Ministry," Moody answered in a low voice, his magical eye remaining on the prone body at Tonks' feet, while the human one looked steadily at Lupin.  "We do not send these men to Azkaban.  We leave now and do nothing but wait for information."  His magical eye swiveled up at the young witch poised to land another kick.  "TONKS, IF YOU DO NOT WANT HIM CURSING YOU LATER, I SUGGEST YOU STOP!"

Tonks froze, staring bewildered at the wizened Auror who had just yelled at her for kicking a Death Eater.  Lupin frowned at the elder Auror, then down at the Death Eater.  Slowly, he stooped and removed the mask.

Severus Snape.

"Oh," Tonks muttered when she saw his face contort as he began to regain consciousness.  Lupin stunned him again, and he fell still.

"Why'd you do that?" Arthur asked.

"If the others wake first and find him unconscious, there will be no suspicion that he helped Harry escape.  He has to look like we took him down."  Lupin glanced toward the one near the door.  "Untie him so he can help Snape get out of here."

"You sure about this, Lupin?" Moody asked as Arthur removed the binds from the other Death Eater.

"I hope so."  He caught Moody's eye.  "Otherwise, he's a dead man."

₪₪₪₪

Madame Pomfrey was sitting at her desk sorting files for new students when she heard the commotion.  Puzzled, she rose from her seat and glanced around, expecting to find a mouse scurrying about on the floor.  Still frowning, she sat down again, then jumped out of her seat as a low cry emanated from the door behind her.  That door led to a private room Professor Snape used when he had been seriously injured in his work for the Order.  If noises were coming from that room, Snape must have used his emergency portkey.

She threw the door open, expecting to see the tall professor lying on the bed or crumbled on the floor, but was surprised to find a student standing in the middle of the small room.  In the darkness, she could not make out who he was or how he had come to be in a room which had only one entrance that she had been sitting in front of for over two hours.  With a wave of her wand, she lit several candles and gasped.

Dressed in thin hospital pajamas, Harry Potter stood just in front of the bed.  His right arm was in a sling.  Blood dribbled down his too pale face.  His body trembled violently, his eyes wide with fear as he stared up at the medical witch, who stared back with as much confusion in her eyes as his had fear.

"Potter?"

His left hand opened and a glint of silver followed, as Snape's emergency portkey, his silver pocket watch, fell from the boy's hand.  It seemed to fall in slow motion until it bounced shallowly across the floor with a metallic _tink_, before coming to rest on its back, its face shattered.  The boy followed, his body going limp as he too fell to the floor.

"Oh gods!" 

Well, that's it for this chapter.  Don't worry.  Next chapter, I'll explain what happened to Harry to land him where he was.  And no, it wasn't the beating.  It's much more logical than that.  I gave you all the info you need to figure it out yourselves!  But if you do, please don't put it in your review.  I want it to be a surprise to those who don't figure it out.  If it makes you feel better, you can tell me afterward whether or not you were right, or tell me what you thought it was.

Toodles!


	11. Chapter 11

It didn't take long for Dumbledore to return to the school.  As soon as Harry collapsed, Madame Pomfrey quickly got over her initial shock and, after placing the unconscious student into the bed normally reserved for Professor Snape, contacted McGonagall to alert her as to what had happened.  Then, she turned toward healing what injuries she could see.  There were several cuts and scratches around his scar which had to be healed, and his arm mended.

She had no more finished removing the sling from Harry's arm when Dumbledore appeared in her office with Remus Lupin, Arthur Weasley, and a large black dog who, as soon as they stepped into the small room where Harry lay, turned into Sirius Black.  Sirius was instantly at Harry's side, sitting on the edge of the bed holding his hand, while Remus repeated the story of how Harry was tracked down and came to be in the Hospital Wing.  When he was finished, he handed over the file he had collected from the Muggle doctor's desk to Madame Pomfrey, who began looking over it as soon as it reached her hands.

"Gods preserve us, look at all the medications they've been giving him!"  She flipped several pages, tsking and huffing at the poor job the hospital had done in preserving her charge.  "If the boy has gone insane, it's because of all these poisons they've injected into him!"

"We must be sure, Poppy," Dumbledore told her patiently, though his eyes were on the unconscious boy on the bed.  "There must have been a reason he was admitted to such a hospital in the first-."

The Headmaster was interrupted as shrill screams erupted from the bed.  Sirius leaned over Harry, trying to restrain the flailing arms of the smaller boy, trying to reason with him, explain where he was.

"No!  NO!" Harry began screaming.  "Stop!  Not again!"  Then his voice became very low as he pronounced very calmly, "You know the price of failure.  _Crucio_!"   He began screaming hysterically again just as Pomfrey reached his side with a cup in her hand and, with Sirius' help, poured the potion down Harry's throat.  He calmed and fell to sleep again.

"What was that?" Remus asked, his eyes wide with shock.

"I'm not sure," came the answer from the headmaster.  "But I am now more impatient than ever for Severus to return."

Snape appeared nearly an hour later, looking gravely composed as he sought out both Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey, finding them both where he had expected: the small room where Potter lay.  He called them away from the others and stood in the office of the Hospital Wing.

"He did not know me," he told them, his one as devoid of emotion as if he had been commenting on a plain toad by the lake.  "Even after I removed my mask, he did not know me."

"He didn't have his glasses when I found him," Pomfrey told him.  "Perhaps he simply could not make out your face."  But Snape was shaking his head.

"Potter has heard my voice for four years now," he told her.  "Regardless of whether or not he's listened to what I've taught, he would know my voice as he would know the voices of Filius or Minerva or the Headmaster."

Pomfrey opened her mouth to disagree, Snape interjected before her voice left her throat.

"Did he recognize you when he saw you?"

"I just said he wasn't wearing his glasses."

"How did he react?"

"He was quite agitated, naturally.  He passed out of fright."

"Fright?"  His eyes met the Headmaster's, but said nothing more, reserving the ensuing silence for thought.

"Let Harry rest all he can, Poppy.  From the bags under his eyes, he has had very little."  Dumbledore said finally.  "We can know nothing more of his condition until he wakes.  However, if what Severus tells us is true, if Harry has forgotten things he should know, we must know as soon as possible."

"Albus," Snape replied as soon as Madame Pomfrey went to check on her patient, "surely you understand the implications."

"I do.  But it also means young Harry is not so insane as his previous doctors supposed.  Imagine waking up without a memory of who you are or where you are, knowing nothing of what has happened to you up until you opened your eyes in a hospital bed.  Now imagine that in the confusion of your own identity, you feel the sharp pains in your forehead, hear voices in your sleep, see Voldemort as he tortures his victims and followers.  And imagine, as I suspect is the case, that you see these things as well from his mind, formed as it was from hatred and loathing.  Harry might have difficulty dealing with all this when he knew the causes, but when that knowledge was taken from him-."

"He appeared, and perhaps believed himself to be, insane."   

            Harry opened his eyes to an unfamiliar world.  It consisted of a dimly lit white room containing five people.  He knew he was in a room, but he didn't know where.  He knew that he was in a bed.  And he knew that the people in the room were wearing clothes of black, white, red, and blue, but he did not know the people.  He watched them look at him and lean over him.  He watched their mouths move, but he heard nothing of what they said, so clouded was his mind by exhaustion and medication.  He felt only pain in both his head and his body.  Soon, he closed his eyes again.

            Sometime later, he opened his eyes again and was aware that the number of people in the room was different.  The two were ones he had seen before: an old man with white hair and a very long beard, and an older woman with dark hair in a tight bun and piercing blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.  

            On another occasion, another man, thin and pale-skinned with a narrow hooked nose, leaned close to him, looking into his eyes.  His hair was long and dark, and leaning so close, Harry could see that it was greasy.  Then, the face wavered and became two faces, alternately overlapping then drifting apart.  A vague memory came to him of the man writhing in agony on the cold ground.  Pain pounded behind his eyes.  He closed them again.

            The next time Harry opened his eyes, he saw another woman leaning over him.  She was dressed all in white and held a hand to his forehead.  His head was clear, the voices silent.  His head was not threatening to explode.  He looked past the woman where he could make out two men.  One was dressed fully in black with long dark hair and pale blue eyes.  The other was standing next to him with lighter brown hair speckled with gray and green eyes so light they appeared almost gold.    He was studying these two men who were conversing quietly, seemingly unaware of him, when the woman began to speak.

            "Potter?"  Harry swung his eyes back to hers, which were peering down at him.  "Harry Potter, are you in there?"

            Harry saw the two men start, then move closer to the bed.  They too were looking down at him, as if they expected some answer he could not give.  They remained watching him for some time, waiting for an answer, but he gave none.

            'Who is Harry Potter?' he wondered.  'Is that my name?'  He wasn't used to being called by any particular name, nor was he used to his head being so quiet. '_Is _that my name?' 

            The sudden realization that he could not answer that question while these three unfamiliar people were staring down at him, calling him by that name, filled him with terror.  His eyes filled with tears.  He felt the woman take his hand, and looked around the room again.  The brown haired man had disappeared.

            "Harry, can you hear me?" she asked, gazing down at him.  

Harry simply gazed back.  He wanted to answer, but something held him back.  His mouth, his tongue, his vocal chords did not seem to want to obey him.  He felt as if he had never spoken before, though he knew he had.  He knew he had screamed at and pleaded with the voices in his head.  But had he spoken?  Frustrated at having no answer in his memory, he squeezed his eyes shut.

            "Harry, can you understand what I am saying to you?"  Her tone changed suddenly.  "I know you can see me and that you can hear me, so if you understand me, I need you to squeeze my hand. Can you do that?  Squeeze my hand just as I am squeezing yours."

            A kind smile spread across her face as she felt the pressure on her hand.

            "Good, Harry.  That's good.  Now, do you know who you are or where you are?  If you do, squeeze my hand again, just like you just did."  She waited for a moment, but no answer came.  "Very well, if you do not know either who you are or where you are, squeeze my hand."  Harry squeezed, and she sat back with a short cry, but only for a moment.  She leaned over him again.

            "Your name is Harry Potter.  You're a student at Hogwarts.  That's where you are now.  It's a school.  Your school."  She glanced up at the man in black for a moment who was now leaning over the bed, his face looking very pale, then back down at Harry.  A small frown touched her lips.  "Can you say your name?  Can you say 'Harry'?"

            He tried to answer her, but his lips and throat were so dry, he could do nothing with them.  He heard only a dry rasp escape his throat where he had determined to make words.  The man in black disappeared for a moment, then returned with a cloth, which he used to wet the boy's lips.  Then, he lifted his head carefully so he could drink.  All the while, Harry kept his eyes on this man's face, which was gaunt and frightening, but when the man noticed Harry watching him so carefully, the face cheered, and a warm smile brightened the face.  All at once, Harry felt comforted by it, though he did not understand why.

            "I'm Sirius," the man said, cupping Harry's cheek gently.  "Sirius Black.  I'm your godfather.  Sirius."

            "Sirius," Harry repeated softly.

            "That's right, Harry.  That's right."  The man was smiling, but his voice broke.  A tear slid down his cheek.

            "You're Sirius," Harry said to him.  "And I'm Harry-."  He stole a glance back at the woman for help.  "Potter.  I'm Harry Potter.  And this is Hogwarts."

            "By Merlin-."  The voice startled all of them, and Harry looked toward the entrance to see that the brown haired man had returned with two other men.  The elderly man with the beard came toward the bed and sat on the edge, looking down at Harry.  His sad blue eyes gazed down at him through half-moon spectacles perched on a rather long nose.  After a long silence, the man reached out and clasped Harry's hand.  "How are you, Harry Potter?  I am Professor Dumbledore."  He glanced behind him to where the brown haired man was standing wide-eyed.  "This is Remus Lupin.  And Professor Snape."  He motioned toward a tall man who stood quite apart from the others.  He was dressed in black, as Sirius was, but his eyes were so dark, they too seemed black.  He was watching Harry carefully, and making the boy feel uncomfortable under the penetrating stare.  "You have no idea, my dear boy," Dumbledore continued, drawing Harry's eyes back to him, "how happy we are that you are back here with us."

            Harry looked quietly around the room, taking in the faces of these adults who seemed to know him, yet whom he could not remember.  It was hardest to look at the man called Sirius who looked as if he were the butt of a bad joke.  He looked as if he were going to break down any moment.  

Everyone was looking at him expectantly.  A lump welled in Harry's throat, but he fought for control before a sob could be wrenched out.  He sat silently, controlling the emotions that threatened to scream out in the emptiness of his brain.  

"Do you know me?" he asked finally.  "All of you, you know me?"  He looked at each face carefully, searching his memory for some reference to those around him, but found none but the torture of the severe looking one (Professor Snape, was it?).  "Why, then, can't I remember any of you?"

            "That is a very good question.  Poppy?"

            The woman named Poppy straightened and looked around her, unsure whether she should be addressing Harry or the entire room.

            "It's called amnesia, Potter.  It is a loss of memory.  It happens in varying degrees of severity.  Sometimes, one simply forgets who they are, but remember everyone and everything else.  For some, there are simply holes, gaps in their memory.  Other times, they remember themselves, but nothing else.  And for a very few, the mind is wiped completely clean, and one is like a new babe.  It seems that for Harry, it is a minor case of the latter."

            "Is it permanent?"  It was Remus Lupin who spoke this time, his eyes never leaving Harry as he spoke.

            "I don't know.  It can be.  It's different for everyone."

            "Does he remember _anything_?" Professor Snape asked.  His voice was low and steady, but something in it sent shivers down Harry's spine.

            Poppy looked at Harry, whose eyes were still glued on the professor.

            "I don't know.  Harry hasn't been awake for very long, so we haven't had a chance to-."

            Before the sentence could be finished, a short stick had appeared in Professor Snape's hand.  He whipped it toward Harry, moving his lips as if speaking.  Everyone else in the room was shocked, except for Remus Lupin, who reacted by grabbing Professor Snape's arm.

            "What the hell are you doing, Snape?"  Sirius yelled.

            "That," Snape answered, folding his arms across his chest and nodding toward Harry, whose hand had slipped into his sleeve, as if trying to find something.  "Potter keeps his wand up that sleeve.  He reacted to a possible threat by going for his wand.  Apparently, he hasn't forgotten everything."

            "I see," Dumbledore murmured, his face brightening considerably.

            "What are you?  Some kind of bloody idiot?" Sirius was still screaming.  "You could have hurt him!"

            "Down boy," Snape replied coolly.  "If Potter's condition gets out, he will be an even greater target than he already is.  If he can't protect himself, we need to know that right now."

            "And the best way to do that is by trying to curse the boy after everything-."

            "I was reciting nonsense, Black.  Any _decent _wizard would have recognized that."  He looked pointedly at the other man.  "What's important is that he knew how to react."

            "I agree," Dumbledore said, putting an end to the argument.  "Harry will be in danger, and he will most definitely need to know how to protect himself.  He may know how to react, but he may not remember the spells."

            Harry watched them all in confusion, slowly withdrawing his hand from up his sleeve, wondering if perhaps he was still in the hospital and these people were as crazy as he was.  Spells?  Wands?  Was this another figment of his mind?  Quite suddenly, hot pain shot through his forehead, forcing all of his thoughts from his brain.  He was aware of nothing but the fire in his skull.

The adults in the room froze as Harry's body stiffened.  One hand shot up toward his forehead, fingers extended as he dug his nails into the skin around his scar, drawing blood, first to the surface of the skin, then to tiny rivulets that dripped slowly from between his fingers.  Pomfrey moved to help him, but was stopped by Dumbledore.  Harry was muttering to himself in a low voice, when his body suddenly slackened, his hand fell from his forehead, and he looked up at those around him.  His face was changed, tightened, frightening as it was with thin lines of blood making their way down the side of his nose and brow, framed by his long hair.  His eyes bore into the headmaster, glowing sinisterly above a sneering mouth, which opened to emit speech.

"It is done."  An eerie laugh filled the room.  Everyone's skin crawled.  The laugh turned into a scream.

"Get out!  Get out!"  Hands raised again to tear at their body's own flesh.  "Stop it!  STOP!"  Harry was rocking back and forth on the bed.  His knees, covered with a sheet, were drawn to his chest, as if to protect himself.

The room watched in silence as the scene played out.  The screaming stopped, but the boy continued rocking and clawing at his forehead.  The Headmaster motioned for Madame Pomfrey to administer a potion, and the boy soon quieted into sleep. 

"It seems," Dumbledore said finally, "Harry's illness may not be merely what we at first believed."  His eyes met Snape's.  "I only hope we can stop it." 

*  *  *

I hope this was fairly clear for you.  As for Harry being crazy, just in case you didn't understand Dumbledore's explanation: because Harry lost his memory, he didn't understand the voices in his head.  Hence, he was screaming at them and clawing at his scar, which gave him immense pain.  However, as you saw in the end, there's still more to it!  

As for the opening and closing his eyes at the beginning of this last section, I saw it as Poppy letting Harry sleep for a day or two (or three) for his own health and while the medications from the Muggle hospital ran their course.  Sorry if that was odd.  It's hard to write from the pov of a crazy person awakening from a drugged induced slumber.  Sorry, never been there.

Just a note, as the school year is beginning soon, I'm spending all my time preparing for the students to return next week, so it may be a little longer than usual before I can get another chapter out.  I'm aiming for next weekend, but if it's longer, I'm sorry.  


	12. Chapter 12

Ron awoke from a shallow sleep, wondering if he had really fallen asleep at all until he peeked out from behind the curtains of his four-poster bed and saw that the room was quite dark and the only sounds to be heard were those from the other three boys' snores and even breathing.  He'd lived with this for over four years now.  It shouldn't have woken him, yet he was sure that he had been waked by some noise.  Attributing the noise to something of his dream, he laid his head again on his pillow and closed his eyes, when an alien sound reached his ears that had not come from within the room.  Quietly, he slipped from his bed, crossed the room without slippers or robe, and opened the door enough to be sure the sound was coming from the Common Room.

Padding down the stairs in his bare feet, Ron discovered what the sound was: someone was crying.  He turned to go back to bed, leaving whatever soul to the privacy of their own hell, when into his mind came an image of Hermione, hands on hips, telling him to act like a Prefect.  He leaned his back against the wall for a moment, angry at his own conscience for agreeing with her.  Everyone had issues.  Hell, he had issues enough without having to deal with someone else's.  But then, he was a Prefect, and that unfortunate knowledge, he knew, wouldn't allow him to go back to sleep so easily without at least checking up on the distressed creature downstairs.  Finally, with an annoyed shake of his head, he turned again toward the Common Room and his Prefect duties.

A young woman stood before the fireplace, staring at the flames as if they held the answers to all life's problems.  She neither turned nor made any movement of notice at his approach, except to pull her pink robe more tightly around herself before muffling a sob in the arm of her robe.  Convinced she still had not noticed him, Ron called out to her.

"Hermione?"

Hermione started, then turned her tear streaked face to her friend.  Her surprise at finding Ron, of all people, standing just a few feet from her, previously unnoticed, was evidenced by her wide eyes and slightly parted lips.  She pulled her sleeve over her eyes, drying them, and forced a weak smile.

"Hermione, are you all right?"

She nodded.

"You were crying."  He drew nearer, stopping directly opposite her.  "I haven't seen you cry since we got here a week ago.  Are you sure you're all right?"

Her smile tightened begrudgingly, and she nodded again.  Her eyes shone with a new wave of tears she seemed unwilling to let fall.  They did not escape Ron's notice.

"Hermione-."

She held her smile, but shook her head this time.

"Don't smile and nod at me.  Tell me what's wrong."  Alarm crept into his voice, but he managed to keep it low so as not to wake any others.  Hermione's mouth moved as if attempting to form words.  Finally, she found her voice.

"I just had a bad dream."  Her voice cracked as she pushed another wave of tears down.

"Is that all?" Ron asked, relieved that nothing else terrible had happened.  He had had enough of bad news for one lifetime.  "Come on then, let's hear it."

Another shake of the head.

"It'll make you feel better to get it off your chest."  When she made no answer, he took her wrist, directing her toward the couch, and sat her down in the middle, then positioned himself facing her, leaning sideways onto the cushioned back and propping his head on his hand.  "What brought you down here in the middle of the night?"  The look on Hermione's face was his answer, and he mentally kicked himself for even needing to ask the question.

She'd dreamt about Harry.

Damn.

He'd made a full four hours without thinking about the fate of their friend.  He'd been able to clear his mind since Quidditch practice when he'd found out he'd be the new Keeper for the team, and Angelina announced that they needed a Seeker as well.

"What do you mean we need a Seeker?" Katie cried.  "What's up with Harry?  Isn't he coming back?"

She turned toward Ron and the twins, seeking an answer to her question, but was met by downcast eyes and mute tongues.  "Ron, you're his best friend.  Where is he?"

Still, no answer.

"Look," Angelina interrupted.  "All I know is that Harry hasn't been here in the last week, and McGonagall pretty much told me to keep an eye out for a new Seeker.  Obviously, if Harry comes back, he can keep his position, but until then-."

"He's not coming back," Ron had murmured under his breath, not even realizing what he'd said until he felt his brothers' eyes boring into him.  He looked up to meet the eyes of the Chasers as well.

"I know, Ron.  I know he's not coming back," Hermione told him.  "It's not like I've been deluding myself with some fantasy that Harry will just appear and everything will be normal.  But- don't you ever just have one of those dreams that's so real, you have to wonder if it really happened?  No matter how improbable?"  

"That's what freaked you out," Ron answered.  "How real it was."

"Yeah, but it was so, I don't know, random."

"What was it?"

"Well, I was walking through the Forbidden Forest.  It was very cold, even though I had on my cloak, but then, the ground started sloping upward, like I was climbing a mountain, and all the trees turned into evergreens.  And I got to this clearing, and there was Harry writing on a blackboard.  It was the queerest thing.  I saw him writing, and I could hear the sound of the chalk, but the board was blank. Naturally, I tried to get his attention- called his name, touched his shoulder, stood in front of him- but it was like he couldn't see me, like I didn't exist.  Even when I screamed in his ear.  And then the sun started rising, and the sky turned deep red, an suddenly, I was awake."

Hermione fell silent and looked down at her hands, while Ron merely stared after her, a bewildered look in his eyes.

"Wow," he said after a few seconds of silence.  "That _was_ really random."

"I told you it was," Hermione exclaimed, tears rising again in her eyes.  "It's just- is it horrible of me to wish the dreams would stop?  I mean, I hardly sleep, and I can't concentrate properly on anything.  But at the same time, the only way I can see him ever again is in my dreams.  I'm terrified that some time down the road, I won't be able to really remember him at all, except as he is in pictures, but I can't go on breaking down every time someone asks me where he is or if I know what happened to him.  Why couldn't Dumbledore have just told everyone so they would leave us alone?  Why- why can't they just let him rest?"

This last question was muffled as Ron had pulled her to him and was cradling her to his chest as she broke down again, tears stinging his own eyes.  He had had the same thoughts as well over the past few days.  Why hadn't anyone at the school been informed?  When would the dreams stop?  When would the _hurt _stop?  Unfortunately, he had no answers to give, so had to soothe her only with a long embrace and soft whispers until finally she stilled and her whimpers became softer, evaporating into the even breathing of sleep.  Ron laid his head atop hers, unwilling to let go of her, unwilling to let the dreams return, until his own eyes became to heavy to keep open, and he too was fast asleep.

¤¤¤¤

"Severus?  Do you have a moment to speak in private?"

Snape looked at the Headmaster, wanting to say no, that he was extremely tired and was facing a very long day with his classes in the morning, but when Albus Dumbledore asks for a moment, it is not a question.  He's telling you that he would like to speak with you.  The Potions Master nodded and followed the Headmaster up to his office, seating himself in his customary chair across the large desk.

"Severus, you more than any in the order are responsible for bringing Harry back to us.  For that I thank you."

Snape groaned inwardly.  He would not have been brought all the way up into Dumbledore's tower for a mere thank you.  Gods preserve, he was going to ask a favor.

"I understand his importance in our cause," he answered warily.

"Yes, Harry is very important to our cause, as he is important to myself, personally."

"And I am sure I have done _more_ than my share in keeping Potter safe over the years, considering my _position_."

"Indeed, you have."

"And yet, I foresee you're asking me for more, despite the constant protection he has from Black and Lupin, not to mention the school itself."

"You are as perceptive as ever."

"Why, _exactly_, are you asking me when there are so many others who _want_ to babysit Potter?"

"Severus," Dumbledore said, leaning his elbows on the desk and sitting forward in his seat, a sure sign that he was either going to share a very wonderful secret or very ominous news.  His serious tenor denoted the latter.  "You were in the room during Harry's- hysterics.  What did you perceive?"

"Possession," Snape answered, casually crossing his legs.  "Or Potter really is deranged.  I hope we have not yet ruled out that possibility."

"Possession.  Yes, that is what I believe as well."  He was quiet for a moment, then furrowed his brow as if in thought, before focusing a serious gaze on the Potions Master.  "Harry had a similar fit the very evening he returned to us, a little more than an hour before you yourself returned.  It was that same voice, Severus."  Snape shifted slightly, his eyes never leaving Dumbledore's.  "I believe his exact words were, 'You know the price of failure,' followed by the Cruciatus Curse."

Snape's eyes closed slowly as his face sunk into his hand.

_"You know the price of failure.  Crucio!"_

Those very words had been uttered in a low voice that sent involuntary shudders down his spine.  He'd expected to hear those words since he had been sent on this mission, as Snape knew Potter could not fall into the Dark Lord's hands.  Luckily, the bulk of the Dark Lord's wrath had fallen on his favorite, Lucius Malfoy.  That's not to say Snape had gone unpunished, but he had been able to walk away, though painfully, at the end of the night.

"How?" was all he asked, knowing Dumbledore would understand his question perfectly.  

"I have suspected for some time that Voldemort would realize the link between himself and Harry, that with his newly regained power, that link would broaden and they would be able to enter each other's minds, see what the other is seeing, and feel what the other is feeling.  We both know he is a very powerful Legilimist, and I believe that Harry's weakness after leaving his family's care allowed Voldemort's mind to seep into Harry's.  After he discovered Harry was alive, he began trying to fully enter it voluntarily.  We have witnessed the result."

"I presume I do not need to ask what you require of me?"

"There are few who are so practiced at shielding their minds against one so powerful.  Certainly Remus and Sirius, though I know they would volunteer were I to ask them, would not benefit Harry so much as yourself."

"There is another who would benefit him much more than me, Albus, and would be much more patient than I could ever be."

"Do not think I have not considered all options, Severus.  I will help you.  However, as I mentioned before, Harry is very important to me, for more than simply being Harry Potter.  If Voldemort can take Harry's mind and see how much I care for him, it could be disastrous.  I cannot place him in greater danger than he is already in."

"And if he realizes I am helping Potter?"  Snape snapped angrily.  All this Potter business had placed his own position into more and more peril.  How many more nights of torture was he to endure before he was finally discovered to be a traitor?  Was it to be his lot to _die_ for this boy whom he couldn't stand in the first place?

"Do what you must, Severus.  I realize what danger this places you in, but Harry's safety is tantamount to the safety of all of us."

Snape rose and strode about the room, saying nothing, though anger broiled within him.  So this was to be the overreaching theme of this war: save Potter at all costs.  And it would fall to him to be sure it was carried through.  All other lives were inconsequential; most certainly the life of a Death Eater spy.  He spun angrily toward Dumbledore and found himself looking at a very old man who sat with his eyes closed, as if deep in some disturbing thought.  Then those blue eyes revealed themselves slowly, sweeping up Snape's long black-robed body before settling on his cheerless face.  

Those eyes that had seen so many die who had followed him into battle.  

Those eyes that were now seeing every one of those faces as they stared up at the Potions Master.

Those eyes that were not only the window to a happy, generous soul, but one that battled every decision in this war against his love for those he commanded.

Those sad, apologetic eyes that begged forgiveness for a task he must ask.

Those damned eyes.

"As you wish, Albus.  I will tutor Potter in Occlumency." 

¤¤¤¤

"How will you treat his amnesia?" Remus asked Madame Pomfrey as they stood together in her office, speaking in low voices as the Healer kept a close eye on the large black dog nuzzling the hand of her sleeping charge.

"Were it anyone else" she answered, "I would say we send them to St. Mungo's and hope for the best."

"As it's not anyone else?"

"Familiar surroundings.  People, things he might recognize.  Places that may trigger memories."

"He must be treated at Hogwarts then?"

"Oh yes.  He cannot return to his Muggle family, and even if he could, I would not allow it.  He has spent four years at our school, and I would assume he has plenty of memories here.  Did you have another idea?"

"No," he answered slowly.  "I agree with you, but Sirius, I think, hopes to take Harry home with him."

"Mr. Black?  No, I cannot condone such an idea.  Not while he is on the run.  Has Mr. Potter ever even been to wherever Mr. Black stays?"

"No."

"Then Mr. Black taking Mr. Potter, regardless of his guardianship, would do nothing to heal the boy.  I will have to keep him here."

Remus pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, exhaustion from the long week finally catching up with him.

"He can't return to classes in this condition."

"No, most certainly not.  If Professor Dumbledore wants him to continue his lessons, his professors will have to meet with him outside the regular class times.  Pushing him straight into a class would only confuse him more."  She paused thoughtfully for a few seconds, then continued.  "Mr. Potter has two friends who, I'm sure, will be more than willing to help him."

"Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger."

Madame Pomfrey appeared startled for a moment that Remus knew who she was referring to, but a small smile spread across her lips.

"I forget sometimes that the Headmaster asked you to teach here, Remus."  She touched his arm affectionately, quite proud of the young man before her who had spent so much time in her care as a child.  "I only wish it could have lasted.  Yes, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be willing.  I'm sure they themselves might help Mr. Potter's memory."

"I'm sure Albus will tell them soon."  Remus' eyes fell back on his friend who had still not left Harry's side.  Soon, he would have to tell him that they would be returning to Grimmauld Place alone.  Harry would remain at the school.  Yes, he would have to tell him soon, but not yet.

¤¤¤¤

When Ron opened his eyes, he felt serenely comfortable leaning against the back of the couch, the slight weight of Hemrione's head against his chest.  It was only after sitting for a few moments in silent thought that he realized his arm, which was pinned between Hermione's body and the back of the couch, was numb.  Frowning, he shifted slightly to the left, trying to pull his arm free without waking her, but without luck.  Now leaned forward, cradling her so she would slip off the couch, and pulled at his arm again.  Unfortunately having no blood flow, and consequently, no feeling, he didn't realize how hard he had pulled until Hermione's head jerked up suddenly and collided with his jaw.

"Ow!" 

"Huh?  Wha' hap'en'd?" she asked, her bleary eyes darting about the Common Room.

"Nothing," he whispered, a slight smile on his lips as she squinted up at him.  One curl was pressed against the side of her cheek where it had been smashed against her skin while they slept.  She closed her eyes, curling up against him once more.  Ron was tempted to close his eyes once more and remain on the couch until morning, but the sight of two Prefects sleeping together on the couch would probably not go over well when the rest of the House came down for breakfast.  At the very least, the gossip would be intolerable.  "Hermione?"  

"Hmm?"

"Come on.  You should climb into bed."

"Mmm-hmm."  She made no movement.

"Seriously, come on."  He stood and began pulling her from the cushion.

"Ron," she groaned.  "I was sleeping."

"I know," he told her, holding her up so she couldn't lie down on the couch again.  "But everyone else will be up soon."

"So?"

"What do you think they'll think when they find us lying down here like this?"

"Oh."  Her eyes opened a sliver and she allowed herself to be steered toward the staircase, but she pulled hard on Ron's sleeve as he moved to help her up the stairs.  "No," she whispered.  "That'll wake everyone up."

"What?"  What did she think he was planning?

"Stairs… slide… bad."

"I never thought I'd sound more intelligent than you."

"Trust me," she answered with a tired grin.  "It's better if you don't help me up."  She leaned against the wall heavily and sighed.  "Thank you for tonight," she told him, taking his hand in hers.  "It really meant a lot."

"No problem," he answered, finally unsticking the rogue curl from her face.  "You and me have to stick together, don't we?"

"You and _I_, Ron.  And yes.  But thank you."

"Hey, it's not like you've never done the same for me."

Another overly-tired lopsided smile.  She leaned up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek, but couldn't go high enough and ended up kissing the crease of his mouth.

"Oh, sorry," she told him, moving to wipe the kiss away, but he reached up and caught her hand.

"It's okay," he told her, smiling wryly.

"Okay.  Um, I guess I should go to bed."

"Yeah.  We have classes tomorrow.  How will I learn anything if you don't take notes?"

She tried to look at him reprovingly, but ended up smiling.

"Good night, Ron."

"Good night, 'Mione."

And without hesitation or embarrassment, their lips met in a goodnight kiss.  It was not a kiss that would rank on the list of great passionate kisses.  Nor was it a kiss of long love finally requited.  It was a kiss of inclination, much like the sweet kisses of couples long married, when affection does not need to be proven, but merely shown.  It was a goodbye kiss, a see-you-soon kiss, a comfortable we've-kissed-before kiss between virgin lips.

And neither seemed to realize that it was not a usual way for them to say goodnight until they were both tucked into their own beds on opposite sides of the dormitory, out of the sight of the other.  And when sleep came to them, not a thought had been wasted on such a natural act.

¤¤¤¤

I'm so sorry Harry.  I'm so sorry I wasn't there to protect you.  I- That seems to be my curse in life.  Always at arm's length from those who need me… and those I need.  I've tried.  I've tried so damned hard to keep you safe, just like I promised your dad.  

Gods, James, I've failed you too.  Twice now, I've failed you more miserably than I can ever atone for.  You're gone forever, and your own son doesn't even know who you are.  He doesn't even know who he is!  And why?  Because I was rash!  I trusted where I should not have trusted!  I trusted Peter, and I trusted my own judgment.  I thought I could outsmart Voldemort, and for that you were killed and I tossed into a cell, unable to protect your son.  It's my own fault.  My own damned fault that Harry was sent to live with that family.  My fault.  Mine.

I won't fail you again.  I swear to you by the blood in my veins, I will not fail you again.  I won't fail you Harry.  

I promise.  

I promise.

I will never fail you again.

I swear it on my life.

¤¤¤¤

Albus Dumbledore sat alone in his office.  Snape had left nearly an hour ago, and the elderly headmaster had not moved since.  He sat, staring in deep thought at his ceiling while the portraits of past headmasters flitted between paintings, discussing quietly all which had been seen and heard in the past seventy-two hours.  A few words could be discerned amid their whispers: 'essence divided, yet entwined.'  Those were the words Dumbledore had spoken, and their meaning was lost on none of the painted figures.  

In an instant, all eyes fell on the only living man in the room.  He rose from the chair, his eyes sweeping the faces that watched him expectantly.

"I won't fail Harry," he said, addressing them all at once.  "Not this time.  Not again."  He strode from the room, head held confidently high, closing the door behind him.

The room retained its silence for a long moment, before one painting ventured:

"He won't fail Harry?  Is that what he said?"

"Of course he did, Armando.  You were sitting right there!" a gimlet-eyed witch spat back.

"Yes, I was.  I just-."  The old wizard looked around at the other paintings, all of whom were watching him.  "Do you think he'll be able to let go of the boy when the time comes?"

"When the time comes, Armando?"  Dilys Derwent leaned down into the corner of his frame to see Dippet more clearly.  "What do you mean?"

Armando Dippet looked up at the sallow-faced wizard with short, black bangs.

"When the time comes, Dilys, for him to fight."  He looked around at the others.  "Will he be able to let go of the boy to save the world?"

A few of the paintings pshawed and answered immediately that he would, but most were quiet, staring at the frail-looking old wizard, and wondering.  

Would he? 

*  *  *

**Thundering Lights  **It's rare that I reply to individual reviews, but you sounded so confused, I had to.  The notes in Ch. 11 were an explanation on why my chapters would be coming more slowly.  I am a teacher and my students will be returning to school soon.  The characters in the fic are already at school. ~ Dumbledore had a feeling that Harry was not dead, hence the trunk in the dormitory, which sparked Snape, who disagreed because there was no evidence at the time that Harry was alive. ~ Harry was rescued just after school began.  As for Snape being surprised that Harry was in the Hospital Wing, he wasn't looking for Harry.  He was looking for Dumbledore and Pomfrey and found them where he expected to find them: in the room where he had sent Harry.  I believe my exact words were:

Snape appeared nearly an hour later, looking gravely composed as he sought out both Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey, finding them both where he had expected: the small room where Potter lay.

He was very aware of Harry's presence, but pulled those two from the room because Sirius, Remus, and Arthur Weasley were in the room.  I wanted to get the information out without emotional outbursts from Sirius.  Plus, from Snape's POV, it keeps the information confined until it can be confirmed. 

Does this make sense now?


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: I resubmitted Ch. 11 after fixing a few problems I hadn't noticed, but when I reread it, I found to be glaring.  You don't have to reread, because you probably won't even notice my changes.  To make it easy on you, when Harry appeared in Pomfrey's room, she healed his arm after contacting McGonagall and before Dumbledore showed up. (Thank you, Mrs-Osborne's-class!) 

A/N: Okay, I know the last chapter wasn't the most exciting I've ever written, but it wasn't meant to be.  I kind of saw at it as a look around the castle.  And don't worry, none of it was fluff (even the Ron/Hermione bit).  Everything is necessary.  Now, ready for a little drama?

Huge, HUGE chapter (well, 17 pages) I just could not bear to break up.  Lucky you!

"So Ron, did you get up last night after we went to bed?"

            "Huh?  Oh, uh, yeah."  He tugged his sock onto his foot and looked around for his shoe, avoiding Dean's curious look.  "I heard something downstairs and went to check it out."

            "Oh.  What was it?" he asked, sliding his robes on.

            "Nothing."  Ron kept his head down as he answered, knowing his ears were probably pink at the idea of what had happened just a few hours ago.  He and Hermione had kissed, and it had felt perfectly normal.  And it was normal.  Odd, he wasn't weirded out by it, even after he laid awake for several minutes this morning before climbing out of bed, think about what had happened.  It was- well, it was nice.  That is, so long as Hermione thought it was.  Otherwise, it was a mistake.  Obviously.

            Ron hesitated in the Common Room, wondering if Hermione had gone to breakfast yet.  His eyes lingered on the couch, then to the base of the stairs heading toward the girls' dormitory, his face flushing again as the memory returned again.  Standing here, knowing that last night had not been a dream, a realization washed over him.  He had kissed Hermione!  Suddenly, he wasn't sure if he wanted to see her yet.  Maybe it was a mistake!  Maybe- maybe she was embarrassed and wouldn't want to see him!  

            "Coming Ron?"  Seamus called as they headed out the portal to the hallway.

            "Yeah," he answered, butterflies dancing in his stomach.  The walk to the Great Hall was just too short, no matter how slowly he walked.  Finally, they entered the Hall and its five great tables for students and staff.  His eyes swept over the Gryffindor table and he quickly located Hermione whispering animatedly with Ginny.  Ron swallowed, willing himself to act casually, and walked toward his sister and friend.  He was only a few meters from them when they suddenly darted up from the table, and without a glance in his direction, practically ran around the Hufflepuff table to sit down at the end of the Ravenclaw table with a girl he did not recognize.

            Cheeks burning, Ron sat down quickly next to Neville, who was luckily, sitting near where he was standing.  Neville dove directly into a one-sided conversation about the Herbology homework.  Ron listened half-heartedly, nodding in the appropriate places and shoving toast into his mouth, and trying hard not to turn around in his seat to look for Ginny and Hermione.

            He was about to give in to the urge, when he felt a sharp poke in his side and spun angrily.  

            "Ron, you done eating?" Ginny asked urgently.

            "Why?"

            "_Ron!_  Don't be an idiot!  Are you done or not?"

            "No, I'm not."  He shoved another piece of toast in his mouth to prove his point.  "Whereshermynee?"  he asked, trying to sound indifferent through the half-chewed food in his mouth.

            "That's so disgusting."

            "I said, where's Hermione?" he repeated after swallowing the toast.

            "Waiting for you outside.  Come to the north pier on the lake.  And hurry up!"  She glanced around and hurried from the Great Hall.  Ron watched her leave, feeling more than confused.  Why did he have to go all the way to the pier to talk to her?  Was she too embarrassed to talk to him where people might hear?  And why was Ginny going to be there?  He glanced up the table to where the twins had been sitting before Ginny had come over, but they were gone.  Only Jordan sat across from Angelina and Katie, the remnants of two empty breakfast plates the only evidence that George or Fred had even been there.  

Ron stood, wiping the crumbs from his fingers, and strode out of the Great Hall and Hogwarts Castle.  It took a few minutes before the pier came into view, but there were people there already.  He looked around for Ginny or Hermione to tell him to meet somewhere else, suddenly annoyed by the games they were playing.  Okay, so Hermione wasn't happy about what had happened last night, but that was no reason to act so immaturely!  He was on no mood for games.

But as he drew nearer, he discovered that three of the people on the pier had red hair, and recognized them instantly as Fred, George, and Ginny.  Ginny was waving for him to hurry up, so he jogged the last hundred meters or so before walking up the pier to where his siblings, Hermione, and the Ravenclaw girl were now sitting in a circle on the wood planks.

"Well, Ronniekins is finally here," Fred announced, leaning back on his elbows.   "Wanna tell us why you interrupted breakfast, Ginny?"

"Actually-." Ginny began uncomfortably, before Hermione interjected.

"I interrupted your breakfast," Hermione told them.  "I thought this would be the best place to meet, because we could see anyone who came toward us." 

"What's with the secrecy, Miss Prefect?" George asked.

"There's been a story," Hermione told him, "about Harry.  It just came out this morning."  Her eyes paused on each of their faces, but avoided Ron's.  He kept his eyes trained on her, daring her to look up at him.

"It's about time!" George exclaimed.  "I'm surprised it took anyone so bloody long."

"You called us all the way out here, during breakfast, to tell us that the Daily Prophet finally wrote a story about Harry?"  Fred huffed irritably.

"It's not about his death," the Ravenclaw said calmly.  All eyes fell on her.

"Who are you?" Fred asked, eyeing the girl with straggly waist-length blonde hair.

"This is Luna Lovegood," Ginny explained.  "She's a Ravenclaw in my year.  She's the one who told me about the article."

"So what's the article about, if it's not about his death?" Ron asked Luna, though his eyes remained on Hermione.  She still had not looked at him.

Luna produced a slender magazine from her bag and flipped a few pages, looking for the article.  Hermione was studying her hands with what seemed to be the utmost interest, until Luna found the page and folded the magazine open.  She handed it to Ron.  The headline read: **The Disappearance of Harry Potter.**

"This is old news," Ron said, dropping the magazine into his lap.

"Read it, Ron," Hermione told him grimly, looking at him for the first time.  Fred snatched the magazine from Ron's lap and began skimming the article, grumbling as he went.

"'Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and Thereby Vanquished You-Know-Who, seems to have disappeared from the magical community.'  Blah blah blah.  'Formerly living with his Muggle relatives'… blah blah… 'should be attending his fifth year at Hogwarts.'"  He fell silent as he read further.  Finally, his mouth fell open.  "'On the evening of September 1st, Potter was reportedly discovered in a Muggle hospital by St. Mungo's healer, Anya Saluria.  She contacted the Ministry (and thereby, Minister Fudge) to have the Boy-Who-Lived transported to St. Mungo's for continued treatment of injuries sustained in an unknown manner.  The extent of his injuries are currently unknown as less than twenty-four hours later, Healer Saluria was found dead in her home.  In the same evening, Dr. Edward Thompson, a Muggle doctor whom Saluria had visited the previous day, was murdered in his own office.  Fellow employees of St. Luke's Hospital report that a young man who matches the description of Harry Potter disappeared that same night from his room on the third floor.  All medical records relating to the young man are also missing. This disappearance, reported to authorities as a possible kidnapping, was accompanied by eyewitness accounts by fellow patients on the floor of groups of men in black dresses, apparently robes, wearing masks and carrying sticks (wands).'"

No one said a word as Fred fell silent, his eyes still darting along the page until he again found information worth reading aloud.

"'Minister Fudge refuses to comment on Potter's disappearance, and denies allegations of a cover-up by the Ministry, as both the deceased were killed by what appears to be the most unforgivable of Unforgivables after long bouts of torture with the Cruciatus Curse.  It has also been discovered that Potter's Muggle family, Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley, were tortured and murdered last month in their home.  Whether or not Potter's injuries were sustained in that attack is currently unknown, but highly likely.'"

More silent reading.

"'Numerous theories on the reason for the cover-up abound, but what is known is as follows.  Minister Fudge learned of Potter's whereabouts the evening he was discovered in the Muggle hospital, but would not authorize a portkey to have the boy removed to a Magical facility.  Less than a day later, Wizards described by Muggles as wearing clothing known to have once been worn by Death Eaters were seen in the hospital from which Potter disappeared.  Potter's family and two doctors were murdered in such a way as to suggest Death Eater attacks.'  There are a couple of other articles here too," Fred told them.  "They go further into the theories on Harry's disappearance.  Um, says that the Ministry was trying to shut him up about the whole You-Know-Who coming back thing.  Wow, it even hints that Fudge may be in with the Death Eaters to get rid of Harry."

George and Ron were gaping at Fred when he finished.  Ginny, Hermione, and Luna were much calmer, having apparently already read the article.

"There are some thing's in it that are obviously wrong," Hermione said quietly, "like the time of Harry's disappearance.  We know he was missing in July.  They think he disappeared in August."

"This whole thing is wrong," Ron told them.  "Harry in a Muggle Hospital?  Dad and Bill were checking hospitals.  They would have found him."

"It wasn't a regular hospital," Luna announced airily.  

"How would you know that?" George asked suspiciously.

"My father's the editor.  St. Luke's is a Mental Hospital.  Father just left that out because he hates the Minister and wanted the story to focus on the cover up.

"But wouldn't Harry being crazy sell more papers?" Ron spat nastily.

Luna regarded him quietly before answering.

"Yes, it would.  But, my father believes Harry and Professor Dumbledore that You-Know-Who is back.  If everyone thinks Harry is insane, they won't take You-Know-Who seriously.  It would be irresponsible."

Ron grabbed the magazine back from Fred and flipped to the cover, then held it up for the others to see.

"_The Quibbler?  _This was in_ The Quibbler?  _I- I can't believe you guys are taking this seriously.  Honestly, Hermione, you at least I wouldn't expect to take this rubbish seriously.  _The Quibbler!"_  He threw the magazine onto the pier in disgust.  "Harry's dead!  We all heard the confession."  He got to his feet and looked down at the looks of those still sitting.  "You guys believe what you want," he said more quietly, "but don't expect me to join you in your denial.  I can't do it."  He turned and walked the length of the pier, the only sound was the boards creaking beneath his feet.  No one was speaking behind him, and he guessed they were all just staring at his back as he walked away.  He didn't care though.  Dealing with Harry being dead had been hard enough, but insane?  No.  It was just a stupid sensationalized story written to sell a magazine.  What did they care about Harry's memory?

"Ron!  Ron, wait up!"  He could hear Hermione running after him, but neither slowed his pace nor turned around.  He did however, feel her grab his arm and pull him around to face her.  "Where are you going?" she demanded, her face pink from the exercise.

"Where does it look like I'm going?  Upstairs to do my homework.  And you should go too."  He began walking again.  She cut him off.

"I don't understand.  Do you _want_ Harry to be dead?"

"Of course not!  I'm disgusted that you would even think that!"

"Then why are you leaving?"

"Hermione, did you listen to anything Fred read to us?  Did you consider the source?  You, who do so much research, and you haven't thought about where the information is coming from."

"But there might-."

"No," he told her.  "There isn't.  None if it is true."

She stared at him for a long moment before lowering her eyes to the ground.

"Even if there's the smallest chance, I have to believe, Ron."

"Fine.  Believe what you want.  Take out a subscription so you can read up on all the Potter sightings from here to China.  Start believing everything anyone tells you.  Be the silly, gullible child who hides from the real world behind a hope for the impossible.  But when the real world comes crashing down on you, please do try to cry more quietly so you don't wake me up again."

He walked past her, acutely aware that he had hurt her, but at this moment, he didn't care.  He was too angry at all of them, and especially her, for being so damned gullible.

¤¤¤¤

Harry Potter stood in the middle of the room in which he had been installed just a few minutes ago, and looked around.  It was a large room with a four poster bed with black curtains on one wall and a wardrobe on the opposite wall.  This was to be his room, high up in this castle, and far away from the other inhabitants.

Thankfully, his head was still quiet.  It was still a little odd for him to not hear the extra voice in the back of his mind, and he couldn't help wondering what had stopped it.  He could still hear it once and a while, always sounding angry or annoyed, but for the most part, it was almost like it was filtered from his own thoughts.  And his head still hurt sometimes, a white hot pain that flashed through his forehead with the voice, but the voice no longer accompanied it.  The guy with the huge white beard had explained that it was the result of some tragedy when he was a kid, but wouldn't tell him what.  He'd only said that he'd explain when it was time, and that he just wanted to reassure him that he wasn't crazy.  

Now bathed and feeling more human, Harry ran his fingers through his now short hair, thanks to Madame Pomfrey, and wondered how he was supposed to spend his time all alone up here.  He wasn't allowed to leave, and there was nothing in the room for him to do until the guy with the dark eyes, Snake, no, Snape, came to fetch him for some lesson he was supposed to teach him.  He wasn't looking forward to it.  Quite frankly, that guy scared the hell out of him.  There was just _something._  There were some books on the table, but they looked like old textbooks.  Probably not the most interesting read in the world.  He picked one up entitled, _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5_.

Spells, huh?  All of this still seemed wholly ridiculous to him, even after he had watched with blurry vision as- Remus- tapped a mug with a long stick and turned it into a pair of glasses for him.  Not that he wasn't grateful.  Now he could see more clearly who and what was around him, but he couldn't help feeling that the glasses must have been in his pocket all along.

He carried the book over to the window and dropped it on the ledge with a loud thud, and looked out.  Because he was high up, he could see the grounds of the castle pretty well.  Directly ahead of him was a large lawn bordered by a very ominous looking forest and what looked like a hut.  If he leaned all the way to his left and looked out the opposite side of the window, he could see an enormous lake, with what appeared to be a town or lake on one end.  He idly wondered if the people in that town had any idea that a bunch of nutters who thought they were witches were holed up in this castle.

His interest, however, was dominated by a group of people sitting on the pier on the lake.  They looked much younger than the other people he had met here.  In fact, they looked his own age, even from this distance.  Hadn't Madame Pomfrey told him this was a school?  Were those students?  Did he know them once?

He shifted his position to get a better look, and noticed that one of them, a redhead, from the looks of it, got up and began walking back toward the castle.  Soon after, another ran after, a girl, and began, it seemed, to argue with him.  They had a short exchange and the boy walked away from her, back toward the castle.  She didn't move for the longest time, until long after the boy had disappeared from Harry's view.  She was shaking, it seemed, as she finally turned and walked back toward the pier.

Harry continued watching the group on the pier, feeling a distant connection to them, as they were the first people his age he had seen in this place.  Even when more students began dotting the lawn, his eyes stayed on those on the pier.  A little while later, two more in the group began to leave, again red-headed boys.  When the last of the group, three girls, including the one he had seen earlier, headed toward the castle as well, Harry felt he was losing something, some connection he had made with these people he did not know.  He reached his hand up to the latch on the window, planning to lean out and call to them, more desperate than he had originally realized for contact with people his own age, normal people.  His fingers wrapped around the latch and he pushed it up, but it wouldn't budge.  He tried with both hands, pressing his palms against the bottom and pushing with all his strength, but still, the window would not open.  The girls passed out of sight.

Harry was alone again. 

¤¤¤¤

            Ron purposely chose a table in the farthest corner of the library to work on his homework.  He had worked for some time on a Potions essay he didn't quite understand, and was sure he'd have to end up redoing it before next week was over.  Feeling his dark mood might make Trelawney happy enough to give him a good grade, he began with Divination.  Already, his Dream Chart was three days behind.  He tapped his quill on his lip, hoping a great tragic dream would come to him, before he leaned over his parchment and scribbled out a few lines about a dream in which parsley was growing out of his ears.  Short, comical, and according to _The Dream Oracle_, soon to mean he would lose his mind.  Ron frowned, then crossed out the dream.  Flying.  A nice dream that he was flying amongst the clouds.  Simple, tranquil, and according to _The Dream Oracle_, big changes ahead.  Good.  He could deal with that.  

            Next, he recorded a dream in which he was attacked by his books, all of which had grown sharp fangs and kept biting him, but he finally vanquished them with a bludger.  Horrific, believable, and meant he was going to fail a test.  Gee.  That was news.

            The last dream, he was nearly finished writing before he realized what it was.  It was the dream Hermione had told him about.  He frowned and began to angrily cross it out, then stopped, eyeing the library copy of _The Dream Oracle _he had just laid down.  Curious, he began flipping through the pages, finding the major components of the dream.  She had begun by being lost in a forest, which meant she would receive a puzzling message about an old wrong.  The forest turned into evergreens… evergreens… ah, a sign of lasting friendship… where she saw Harry (Well that wasn't hard to figure out) writing on a blackboard, which means unhappy tidings of a friend, but that's if it's covered in white chalk.  Hadn't she said it was blank?  But what does that mean?  He continued flipping through the book, but found no meaning to it.  He was concentrating so hard on interpreting this dream that he didn't even notice that someone else was near him until a hand fell on his shoulder.  He nearly fell out of his seat, and turned to find Ginny sitting in the seat next to him.

            "What are you doing?" she asked.

            "Homework," he hissed back.  "What's it look like?"  He began to slide his parchment under the book.

            "Look, I was just wondering what you said to Hermione."

            "Why?"

            "Because she was really upset about it."

            "She didn't tell you?"

            "Yes," she answered, "but I wanted to hear your side of it."

            "Why?"

            "Because boys tend to be idiots, especially my brothers, and I wanted to know if you were being an idiot or just plain mean."

            "Gee, thanks."  He began pushing his books into his bag, hoping she'd get the hint that he didn't want to talk.

            "She told me what happened last night," she said quietly, watching him roll up the parchment that included his Dream Chart.   Ron turned slowly to face her, but she just watched him without another word.

            "What did she say about it?"

            "Obviously, as her friend, I'm not privy to tell you the entire conversation, but as your sister… she wasn't unhappy about it."

            Ron released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

            "…Until this morning.  After your little conversation with her."

            He abandoned packing his things and gave her his full attention.

            "What do you mean, 'after my little conversation with her'?  I didn't say anything to her about it."

            "Did you make a comment to her about not waking you up anymore?"

            "Yeah," he answered with a huff.  "But it had nothing to do with that.  It was about all this stuff with Harry."

            "That's not how she took it."

            "How did she take it?"

            "Look," Ginny replied, looking a little uncomfortable.  "Maybe you should just talk to her."  She began to stand up but was held by Ron's grip on her arm, pulling her back into the seat.

            "Ginny!"

            "Shh!"  Madame Pince had appeared around the stacks to chastise them for their voices.

            "How did she take it?" he repeated in a whisper.

            "Ron, look at it from her point of view.  You heard her downstairs and went to comfort her after a bad dream about Harry.  One thing led to another, the details of which I really don't want to know, and you two end up kissing.  And then this morning, you show up all angry and pretty much tell Hermione not to wake you up in the middle to the night anymore."

            Ron stared at her blankly, not quite making the connection.

            "The kiss, Ron.  She thought you were referring to that, not just her crying."

            Very slowly, a light turned on in his head and he understood exactly what Hermione had heard, as much as the connection didn't make sense to him.  After all, he didn't see the two events as being connected at all.  Their kiss had had nothing to do with his comforting her.  It was totally separate, as far as he was concerned.  

            Evidently, not.

            Frustrated at his own stupidity, Ron lowered his head to the tabletop and began banging his forehead against it, causing a hollow _thud thud _to echo through the otherwise quiet library.

            "Ron!  Stop!" Ginny hissed, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him to sit up.  "Just talk to her.  Tell her you were being an idiot."  She glanced down at her watch.  "She's probably on her way to the Great Hall by now."

            "The Great Hall?  We just ate."

            "Ron," his sister said, looking at him with some pity, "it's almost six.  You've been up here all day."

            "Six?  Augh!"  He shoved the last of his things into his bag and stood.  

            "Where are you going?"

            "I have a Prefect meeting and then I'm supposed to do duty patrolling the lower corridors with Ernie Macmillan, which means that unless I catch her at dinner, I won't have time to talk to her until late tonight or tomorrow."

            "Why not talk to her at the meeting?"

            "Miss Responsible?"

            "Oh.  Good point.  Hurry up!"

            Ron was dashing from the library before these last words even left Ginny's mouth.

¤¤¤¤

            At seven on the dot, there was a knock on Harry's door.  He opened it to find the tall severe woman standing in the corridor.

            "Professor McGoganall?"

            "McGonagall, dear.  The 'n' goes before the 'g.'  Are you ready for your lesson?"

            "Er, yeah.  But, I thought Snape-."

            "_Professor _Snape will be meeting you in the dungeon.  I will escort you down."

            "This place has a dungeon?"

            A pained expression passed quickly over the woman's face, but was displaced by a raised eyebrow and a half smile. 

            "Of course it does.  It is a castle."  

            "Oh.  So, will I need anything?" he asked, looking around his room.  He didn't really have anything.

            "No, not this time.  Come along."  She turned and Harry followed.  "Stick close," she told him without turning toward him.  "We're going to take some passages to avoid the crowds around the Great Hall."

            "The Great Hall?"

            "Dinner.  All of the students would be gathered there or near there by now."

            "Oh."  Now Harry really wished he wasn't going to these lessons.  He wanted to sneak down and see these students.  Why were they keeping him away from them?  Harry stopped suddenly and realized Professor McGoganall, no, McGonagall was gone, seeming to have vanished through a wall.  He looked left and right, but didn't see her.  Suddenly a tapestry directly in front of his shifted.

            "Mr. Potter, are you coming?"  She was standing in a passage behind the tapestry.  Harry followed, wondering how many more passages like this were in the castle.  Unfortunately, his excitement for sliding through these passages ended as soon as he found himself in the dungeon, which wasn't really a dungeon, but classrooms at the bottom of the school.  And waiting for him within one of these rooms was Professor Snape, who, from the scowl on his face, was not looking forward to seeing him.  

            Professor McGonagall greeted him as 'Severus,' which Harry guessed was his first name, before leaving Harry on his own in the presence of a man he could not remember, but who obviously remembered him.

            "Follow me, Potter."

            The man turned and walked further down a corridor, then stopped, and taking a key from his pocket, unlocked a room.  Harry stepped into what looked like an unused classroom with tables stacked against the far wall and a thick layer of dust on the floor.

            "The Headmaster has requested that I teach you a very old form of magic known as Occlumency, which enables you to seal your mind against magical intrusion and influence."

            "I'm- I'm sorry, but, what?"

            "You will refer to me as 'Professor' or 'sir,' Potter," he snapped, his eyes narrowing.  "Now please restate your question with more than one word.  Or have you forgotten the fine art of speech?"

            Harry bristled at this.  

            "Why do I have to learn Occumency, sir?"

            "The voices in your head, Potter," the professor pronounced slowly.  "In case you haven't noticed, they are not yours."

            "Whose are they?"  Snape's eyes narrowed and Harry quickly added, "sir?"

            He seemed to debate the answer, and for the longest time, Harry thought he wasn't going to answer.  Then he began to speak, both slowly and deliberately, as if thinking over each word that left his mouth. 

            "A dark wizard, to whom you have been bound magically.  How or why, we do not know, but we know it has happened."

            "'We' who, sir?"

            "Do not concern yourself with that."

            "Then why does this dark wizard want in my head, sir?"

            "Potter, are you going to waste this entire evening asking questions, or can we continue with the lesson?"  He spoke in an angry hiss, but something in his demeanor told Harry he wasn't angry, just avoiding his questions.  "Now," he said, standing and facing Harry with his stick, no, wand in his hand, making Harry feel oddly unprotected.  "I am going to attempt to break into your mind.  Before you lost your memory, I am told, you were able to throw off curses where other's tried to control you, almost as second nature.  Try to do the same.  Throw it off, _mentally_."  Harry shifted uncomfortably.  "Ready?  _Legilimens_!"  

            Harry's skull felt like it was pressing painfully in on him as images, memories began flashing through his brain.

            _A blonde man with gray eyes was kneeling before him, kissing the hems of his robes._

            _Doctors peering down at him.  Bright lights blinding him._

His head was throbbing.

_            "Do you know where you are?"_

_            "Can you tell us your name?"_

_            He was limping along a deserted country road in his pajamas, cold and in immense pain.  Two lights came closer.  Headlights.  A car._

_            A short balding man held out a rolled piece of paper.  His silver hand glinted in the fire light._

_            "You were screaming again last night, this- this Volemort.  Do you know what it is?"_

White hot pain.

_            "I can't help you if you refuse to speak to me."_

            Suddenly, the images stopped.  Harry was on his hands and knees, panting, unable to catch his breath.  Snape stood above him, offering no hand in help.

            "You're not even trying, Potter."

            "I am trying, but I don't know how.  What am I supposed to do?"

            "Block your thoughts.  Empty your mind.  _That_ shouldn't be difficult."

            Harry felt hatred course through him again as the man lifted him to his feet. 

            "Again," he said.  "Prepare yourself…. on three."  The anger was surging through Harry, though he wasn't sure why it was so strong.  "One… two… three… Leglimens!"

_"Severus?  What news from Hogwarts?"  The cloaked man before him lowered his head._

_ "The Potter boy is missing, My Lord, and has been since he left the school."  _

_"Is that so?"  Anticipation._

_"Yes, My Lord."_

_"And what does that Muggle-loving fool think of this- situation?"  _

_"He is out of his mind, My Lord, searching for the boy."_

Harry knew this memory, but knowing the outcome, did not want to relive it again.  Not here.  Not now.  Not in front of him.

_ "I believe that Dumbledore believes it, My Lord."_

_"Well answered, Severus.  However, the information you bring me is false."_

No!  NO!  Not again!  Please no!

_The wand in his hand flicked._

_"Crucio!"_

NO!  I didn't do it, I swear!  It wasn't me!  Stop!  Please make it stop!

Screaming.  Horrific, high pitched, torturous screaming.  The man was on the ground now, his body frozen in convulsion.  He felt satisfaction in the pain he inflicted.

"STOP!" Harry screamed, feeling the fingers in his brain shoved roughly away, followed by a loud crash.  He opened his eyes to see that Snape was hunched over under a shelf of broken jars across the room, blinking up at him with a puzzled look on his face.  Blood oozed from under his hair, down his forehead and neck.  He touched a finger to the blood, looked at it, and returned his gaze to Harry.

"I'm-I'm sorry," Harry stammered, terrified he had hurt the man again, that he had seen the satisfaction, the enjoyment in inflicting pain on his body.  "I didn't mean-."  Unable to finish his apology, and fearing he could hurt the man further, Harry fled the room, not even looking back when he heard the shouts behind him.

_¤¤¤¤_

            Ron trudged through the lower corridors of Hogwarts, hardly paying attention for wandering students who were to be in their Houses rather than making their way through the castle at this time of night.  His mind was instead focused on his own frustration with the whole Hermione Situation.  Unfortunately, she had not been at dinner as Ginny had predicted, and Ron only had enough time to scarf down some food quickly before he had to go to the Prefect meeting.  Hermione was there, but ignored all of his attempts to speak to her, shushing his whispers and holding up an impatient hand when he turned to look at her.  Obviously, she was angry; he could see that, even if he couldn't agree with it.

            Undaunted, he tried to speak with her after the meeting, but she fled the room quickly, and Ron was pulled in the opposite direction by Ernie, with whom he was supposed to be patrolling, but who had made excuses to sneak off early to get some studying in.

            "Our studies are just too important in this level of our education.  O.W.L.s are less than ten months away!"  

            Ron wasn't exactly disappointed to be rid of him.  At least he now had some peace to think in.  Maybe he could formulate a plan to finally get Hermione to talk to him. 

"Oy, you!" Ron called at a student sneaking down the corridor, whose squeaky shoes had drawn his attention.

            "Yeah?"

            "You're a Second Year, aren't you?"

            "Yeah."

            "It's almost nine.  You're not supposed to be out of your House after eight."

            "But I was-."  

            "STOP!"  

            Ron and the younger student both froze as the scream drifted up the stairs from the dungeon.  It echoed against the walls before disappearing totally, leaving Ron no doubt that he really had heard it.  But- it sounded so familiar.  Ron turned back toward the underclassman, who was also staring at the stairwell.

            "Is- is that Professor Snape's detention?"

            "Yeah," Ron answered quickly, drawing his wand from his robes reflexively.  "You'd better get going before you get one too!"  

            A terrified look crossed the student's face as he scuttled down the hallway toward his House.  Ron waited until he was out of sight, glanced around, then headed down the stairwell to find out who had screamed.

            The dungeons were the darkest part of the school, lit only by torches hanging on the walls.  Shadows danced on the walls eerily as Ron passed each flame.  Silence enveloped him.

            A cry of "Potter!" rang out, then faded.

            Potter?  POTTER?  Harry?  Ignoring his own discomfort, Ron ran down the last few steps and nearly ran straight into Professor Snape, who was just reaching the base of the stairs.

            "Weasley!  What are you doing here?" he demanded, though Ron could tell he wasn't interested in an answer.  His eyes were sweeping the corridor and stairs.  

            "Prefect duties," he answered.  "I'm patrolling."  His eyes landed on a trickle of blood as it dripped down Snape's forehead, but averted his eyes when the Potions Master quickly looked at him.  "Is everything all right, sir?"

            "Fine," Snape snapped.  "Go back to your tower."

            "But I heard-."

            "Mr. Weasley."  Ron swung around and found himself looking up at Professor McGonagall, standing very composed, but looking concerned just a few steps above him.  "Go back to Gryffindor Tower, please."

            "But, Ma'am-."

            "Now, Mr. Weasley."

            Throwing one last glance down the darkened corridor, Ron turned and stomped his way up the steps, past Professor McGonagall, who, as soon as he was past her, seemed to let out a breath.  Ron rounded the corner, then stopped, straining to hear the conversation below.

            "Are you all right, Severus?"

            "I'm fine, but he took off."

            "What happened?"

            "One of his memories-," was all Ron heard as the voices became farther away.  They were walking away from the staircase, deeper into the dungeon.  Ron remained where he was, straining to hear what he could.

            "…dangerous for him to be out."

            "I'm well aware… Minerva."

            "Dumbledore… Potter…"

            Ron had heard enough.  He couldn't follow them.  He'd already been told directly to go back to the tower by two Heads of House.  But he had to know, had to see for himself.  

            Was it him?  How?

            Suddenly, Ron turned and raced back to the Tower, slowing only to turn corners without running into a wall.  He screamed the password from down the hallway so the portrait would open without his having to stop as he dove into the Common Room, pausing only to glance Hermione sitting near the fire, reading.  He grabbed her wrist and dragged her toward the stairs, despite her protests.

            "Ron!  OW!  Ron- Ronald Weasley!"  He turned suddenly at her exclamation, not wasting time to see who else was in the room, but only to meet her eyes, gripping both her shoulders in his hands.

            "Hermione, please, this is important."

            "Nothing is this-."

            "HERMIONE!"  She closed her mouth, a scared look crossing her face as she looked up into his, quite possibly maniacal, face.  "This is important.  Just come upstairs with me."

            She must have seen the desperation in his face and voice, because she followed after him, taking each step after his.  Ron threw open the door to the fifth year dormitory, and without stopping, announced to anyone in the room that he needed a few private minutes and that they needed to leave.

            "Why should I leave?" Seamus demanded.

            "Fine!  Stay if you want!"  He turned and, gripping Hermione by the shoulders, planted a huge kiss on her lips.

            "Eugh!  God Ron, if that's all you wanted!"  The door slammed and Seamus was gone.

            "How dare you!" Hermione shrieked.

            "Hermione, shut up!"

            Her mouth clamped shut.  Her eyes widened.  Ron began pacing the room, running his fingers through his hair as he considered how to explain what he had seen.  Finally, he turned to face her, and seeing the confusion, began with a very rushed apology.

            "Hermione, I'msorry.  Ishouldn'thaveyelledatyouandIshouldn'thavekissedyou, exceptthatIwantedtokiss you, butnotlikethat.  Icouldn'tfindyouearliertoexplaineverythingandtoapologize,butthen-."  He stopped, taking a deep breath and finding that none of this made sense to Hermione.  "Look, just-," he waved his hand distractedly, "pretend that never happened."

            "Ron, what is going on?"

            Ron found himself gesturing wildly without the words to accompany his hands. He motioned for her to wait and knelt next to Harry's trunk.  He opened it, and finding Harry's Invisiblility Cloak on top sat it next to him before tearing through the rest of the contents.  He dropped books, and clothes, and notes onto the floor, ignoring Hermione's protests, until he found what he had been looking for.  An ancient looking parchment at the very bottom.  He unrolled it, waved his wand over the blank page, and announced, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."  The map of the castle appeared, accompanied by a great many dots.

            "Ron, what are you doing?"

            Ron scanned the parchment for the dot he knew had to be there, and turned to Hermione triumphantly.

            "You were right.  He's alive."

            "What are you talking about?"

            He walked over to her and held the parchment so she could see, then laid his finger next to the dot he had searched for.  The dot labeled, 'Harry Potter.'

            Hermione was silent for an excruciatingly long moment.

            "Oh my God," she whispered.  "Ron, how did you find out?"

            "There was a commotion in the dungeons.  Snape and McGonagall know."

            "How could they know?" she whispered without taking her eyes from the parchment.  "How could they not tell us?"

            "I don't know," Ron answered.  "But now, we know."

¤¤¤¤

            Harry was ducking behind the tapestry Professor McGonagall had led him behind, desperately wishing he would never be found when he first heard the voice.

            "Potter, come out from there."

            It was Snape.  He knew the voice even before he opened his eyes to see the man holding the tapestry to one side and gazing back at him.  Harry shrank farther into the darkness.

            "Harry, please come out."  This was a woman's voice, sounding both fatigued and worried.  Professor McGonagall.  "We won't hurt you."

            "Nor will you hurt us," Snape added in a partial growl, though it went straight to Harry's chest.  That was exactly what he feared: hurting them just as he had hurt Snape before.  But it wasn't him.  I couldn't have been.

            "You don't know that," he whispered back to them.  "I already did it once."

            Silence.

            "Potter, even if you tried for a fortnight, you couldn't inflict that kind of pain on me."

            "How do you know?"

            "I know.  That's enough."  There was hushed whispering on the other end, followed by an exasperated, "Potter, I already explained to you about the voices in your head.  It was the other man, the wizard who did it.  Not you."  More whispering, followed by a flat and unemotional, "I know you wouldn't hurt me."

            "It wasn't me," he whimpered.

            "We know, Harry," McGonagall answered.  "Now come out of there so we can help you."

¤¤¤¤

            Ron and Hermione sat watching with bated breath as Snape and McGonagall stood mere feet from Harry for several minutes.  Their eyes did not move from the parchment while they waited from some movement from any of the three.  Finally, Snape and McGonagall seemed to be leading Harry through the passage way, twisting their way around the castle without stepping foot into a public area.  Finally, Snape broke away, making his way toward the dot labeled Dumbledore while McGonagall continued to lead Harry toward a room on the third floor.  As soon as they saw McGonagall leave the room and they saw that Harry was alone, Ron shoved Harry's cloak into his bag and the pair headed down to the Common Room to wait, ignoring the whispers and curious stares until the room was empty.  Unfortunately, they would have to wait until nearly midnight before the last students had wandered off to bed.

            Ron removed the Marauder's Map from his pocket, checked to make sure Harry was alone and to double check his location.  Then, he opened the cloak and wrapped it around both himself and Hermione.  They were ready to find their friend.  Without making a sound, they slipped out of the Common Room and made their way through the twisting corridors of the sleeping school.  Twice, they had to freeze and slip out of the way of a passing professor, before they found themselves on the third floor.  They checked their location on the map, and made their way toward Harry.

            Finally, the door was before them.  Harry's dot was alone on the other side.  Ron reached out a hand and pushed on the door.  It was locked.

            _"Alohomora!"_ Hermione whispered beside him, and with a click, the door unlocked.  They pushed the door open and slipped inside.  

            Harry was staring wide-eyed at the door.

            Ron and Hermione were frozen beneath the invisibility cloak.

            Taking a deep breath, Ron pulled the cloak away and found himself face to face with his best friend for the first time in many months.  He was staring into the eyes of a dead mate, trying to stop the tears sliding from his eyes.  No one spoke for a span of minutes.  They didn't seem able to register exactly what was happening.  

            It was Hermione who finally spoke, emitting a strangled, "Harry."

            Harry blinked, his eyes moving between their faces.

            "Harry, we were so worried!" she cried out, throwing her arms around his neck.  "They said you were dead, everyone, but I knew you weren't!  I knew you were still alive!"

            With a motion that seemed unsure, Harry put his arms around Hermione, returning the embrace.

            "Where have you been?"  she demanded.

Ron heard no answer from Harry's lips, but when Harry looked up at him over Hermione's shoulder, something in the look froze him to the ground.  Something was wrong, but what, he couldn't guess.  This just wasn't right, for some reason.  Harry was different.  And- and if everything was all right, why was Harry being hidden away like this?

Suddenly, it hit him.  His eyes.  They were- blank.

"Ron?"  Hermione had turned to him now, obviously wondering why he wasn't happier to have Harry back.  Ron locked eyes with Harry.

"You don't know who we are, do you?"  The words fell from his lips before he could grasp the full meaning of them, but as soon as they were out, as soon as he saw the emotion in Harry's face, he knew the answer.

Hermione disentangled herself from him and shrunk back, staring in horror at Harry's face.

"I- you- you're students here," he said, sounding unsure of every word.  "I saw you down by the lake this morning."

"You saw us?" she whispered.  "This morning?  You saw us?"

            He nodded.

            "And you didn't- you don't know who we are?"  Her voice cracked.  At the moment, she was too shocked to cry, but Ron knew that wouldn't last long.  Harry took a step toward them, and both Ron and Hermione instinctively took a step back.

            "I'm sorry," Harry told them.  "I don't remember you."

            "How did this happen?" Hermione asked.

            "I believe, Miss Granger, that you probably know the answer to that better than Harry does."  Ron and Hermione spun around to find Professor Dumbledore standing in the doorway, observing them.  "And though I am surprised to find you here, I am equally surprised you did not find your way to him earlier."  Anger rose in Ron.

            "You knew about this!" he shouted.  "You knew Harry was alive all along, and you never told us!  You let us believe-!"

            "Ron, no!" Hermione yelled, stepping between Ron and the Headmaster.

            "It's all right, Hermione.  Ron's complaint, however loudly or vehemently lodged, is a valid one, however flawed it may be."  He made a motion with his wand and four overstuffed chairs appeared in the middle of the room.  He motioned for them to sit down, and all did, except Ron.  He merely stood behind his chair, seeming not to trust the man before him.  Sighing, Dumbledore continued.  "I did not know Harry was alive all along, as you believe.  His whereabouts were only made known to us earlier this week.  But since then, for that week, you are correct.  I knew where Harry was, and neither I, nor any other member of the staff, informed you otherwise."

            "So the whole staff knows?" Hermione asked.

            "Indeed, as do Sirius and Remus, and your father, Ron."

            "My dad?  MY DAD??  My DAD knew Harry was ALIVE?  And HE never told me?"

            "I asked him not to, not until we could be sure of the extent of Harry's injuries."

            "We've been with him five minutes, and we can tell you the extent of his injuries!  Were you ever going to tell us?" Ron demanded.

            "Ron, shh!" Hermione hissed, but seemed just as interested in the answer.

            "Of course, Ron.  It was my hope to inform you within a few days, as your presence, and yours, Hermione, may help in healing Harry."

            "So what, exactly, Professor, is wrong with him?"  Hermione's eyes shifted uncomfortably toward Harry who had been sitting uncharacteristically quiet, observing this conversation about him with avid interest.  "What happened?"

            Professor Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment, as if deciding how to answer, then looked very seriously at his young students.

            "I will answer your question, as it is a question Harry himself has asked me.  However, both of you must take an oath that none of this will be repeated to any outside this room."

            "Even to the professors?" Hermione asked.

            "If you ask a member of the staff, they will no doubt look at you as if you'd grown an arm out of your head.  They too are under strict orders on who they may share this information with."

            "Why?" Ron asked, though not as angrily as his last question.

            "Not everyone will be looking out for Harry's best interests," Dumbledore informed them very seriously.  "Certainly after the Triwizard Tournament, you realize of what, or whom I speak."

            Ron and Hermione nodded.  Harry frowned.

            "I have your promise then?"

            "Yes, sir," they answered.

            "Good.  Now, I assume you knew of Harry's apparent death from your brothers' rather brilliant inventions?  The Extendable Ears?"

            They nodded.

            "Just as I thought.  Well then, perhaps we should begin by with a discussion about the drawbacks of Veritaserum…"

            Ron and Hermione listened as Professor Dumbledore explained all he knew of Harry's reappearance in the world, as he explained how he was saved and committed and saved again.  They asked questions of both Dumbledore and Harry about what he remembered and what he would remember and how to help him, and at the end of nearly two hours, they were sent off to bed, both having promised to help Harry in any way they could and to speak not a word of what they had seen or heard.  But, as they walked back to the Tower under the safety of the Cloak, both began to feel unsure of what they had heard.  It had just all seemed… impossible.  Fear, anger, sadness were all swimming about in their brains, that they clasped hands to feel the nearness of another in their private thoughts.  No words were spoken.  None could be spoken.  Finally, they knew the truth.

            Harry was alive.


	14. Chapter 14

See what happens when I get a three day weekend?  You guys get a quick chapter.  And who says teachers don't do anything on their days off?

History is a recording of the past, whether large or small, global or personal.  It can be painted as pictures on walls of caves, buried as treasures in burial chambers, or recorded as words with quill and parchment.  Or, it can simply be images we remember from our own pasts. History, by definition, is memory.  Yet when history is forgotten, does a civilization cease to exist?  Of course not.  We do not know the history, but we know the impact on the present.  The present is changed by it, even, perhaps, without understanding why.  Change is an inevitability of the passage of time, whether or not the history is recorded.  The same can be said of memory.  We are molded by our past experiences, even those we do not remember.  What then of those who do not remember, not a past experience, but themselves?  Should they feel loss?  Pain?  Fear?  Are they any longer themselves?  No.  Without memory, we are pure.  We do not remember our sins, nor those who have sinned against us.  We regain what we have lost: innocence, for innocence is but a figment of our memory.

Hermione Granger sat cross-legged on the floor in the small bedroom way up on the third floor.  In front of her lay a chess board, halfway through a game, and across that, Harry Potter, mirroring her own position on the floor, watching as his pawn was badly pummeled by Hermione's knight.  She had only to explain the rules once, and Harry seemed to remember them, or to internalize them quickly enough to put up quite a fight.

"So, I was on this Quidditch team with Ron?" he asked, as his pawn was dragged off the board in a headlock and thrown unceremoniously on a growing pile of his pieces.

"Well, you've been on the team since our first year, Harry.  You are a Seeker.  Or were.  Ron's only just made it."

"And he's there now?  At practice?"  He blinked up at her through his spectacles, and Hermione felt for the first time since they had first met, a great distance between them.  After all, the three of them had grown closer through the experiences they had shared.  Now Harry couldn't remember those experiences.  

Hermione suddenly found herself wishing Ron was back from practice, though she had the distinct feeling he was taking his time back from the pitch.  When she had mentioned visiting Harry tonight, a look had crossed his face that verily suggested he was trying to think of an excuse not to.  Luckily, she had caught him by surprise.  

"What time is it?" Harry asked, and Hermione realized she had been looking at her watch when he asked.

"Oh, it's, uh, eight-seventeen."

"You have to be back at nine, right?"  He sounded so disappointed.  Hermione wondered what he did up here all day.

"Technically, yes," she said with a slight smile, "But I brought your cloak."

"_My_ cloak?"

Oh.  In her momentary excitement for the minor rule breaking she had planned, she had forgotten the current, slightly huge and unforgettable situation.  

"Well, yes," she told him, standing and walking to her bag near the bed.  "It was your dad's cloak, actually, but now it's yours."  She found the cloak folded neatly on top and unfolded it for Harry to see.  She was touched with sadness as his eyes lit up in seeing it.  After all, how often had they all hidden under it together?  "It's an Invisibility Cloak."

"Does it really work?"

She wrapped it around herself and heard Harry gasp.

"You really don't remember?" she asked, slipping the cloak off and sitting down across from him again.  She passed the cloak over the board and Harry sat with it in his lap, letting the thin fabric slip through his fingers.

"No, I don't," he answered.  "Did I use it often?"

Hermione couldn't help but laugh.

"Harry, you were notorious for being out of bed at all hours.  We once snuck a dragon out of the school under that cloak!"

"Really!  A real dragon?"

"By the name of Norbert."  Hermione launched into the story of how they had smuggled Norbert up to the top of the astronomy tower, happy to at last do something besides play chess or talk about the weather.  It felt good share this with him, and as she spoke, he expected Harry to be chipping in details she had forgotten or telling her she was exaggerating the danger.

"Wow.  We really did that?"

Hermione's smile began to falter, but she saved it.

"Honestly Harry, that was just our first year!"

A tentative knock at the door, and Ron appeared, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his hair still damp from his shower.

"Hey, what'd I miss?" he asked, remaining a few feet from where they sat.

"Just a game of chess," Hermione replied.  "And we were talking about some of the adventures we've had under Harry's cloak."

"How was Quidditch practice?" Harry asked.

"All right," Ron answered.  "Ginny's taken over the Seeker position.  She's good, but not as good as… And I've been rotten as the Keeper.  Slytherin spent the entire practice distracting me, and I just couldn't concentrate."  As Ron spoke, Hermione noticed he looked at her and the floor, but never at Harry, as if he wasn't even in the room with them.  She motioned toward Harry with her chin when he looked up at her, but Ron's eyes just drifted to the floor.

"So do you think you can win?" Harry asked.

"The Cup?"  Ron looked surprised that Harry had asked about it, and for a moment hopeful.  "We have a shot.  We just need to practice more and get used to playing together.  And if I can manage to keep my hands on the quaffle and Ginny can catch the Snitch, we have as good a chance as any."

"Wronski Feint." Harry said, studying the chess board before him.

"What was that, Harry?" Hermione said, a slight frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"What was what?"

"You just said, 'Wronski Feint.'"

"Oh.  I don't know.  It just kind of popped into my head."

"It's a Quidditch move.  One that you've used during matches," Ron explained excitedly.  He squatted down so he was level with the others.  "We saw it at the World Cup.  Do you remember?  Ireland versus Bulgaria."

"No.  No, I don't.  I don't even know what the Wronski Feint is.  The words just came to me."

"Oh."  Ron straightened up and began to stare out the window.  Silence settled over the trio, permeated only by the sounds of battle on the chessboard, and Hermione's eventual 'check' and 'checkmate.'  She began clearing away the pieces, and from the corner of her eye, saw Harry's brow furrowed quizzically, as it often was when he was thinking something out in his head.

"What is it, Harry?"

"I was just wondering," he began slowly.  "What do you know about Sirius?"

"More than you, at the moment," Ron murmured under his breath, still staring out the window.

"What do you want to know?" Hemione asked.

"Well, he's my godfather, right?  But I don't live with him.  And since I came here, I haven't heard from my parents.  Or at least, if I have, I wasn't told they were my parents.  So I guess I want to know-."

"Harry," Hermione breathed, catching Ron's eye, "nobody's told you about your parents?"

"Or about Sirius?" Ron asked.

"Or your scar?"

Each of these questions was answered with a shake of Harry's head.  The last, accompanied by wide, curious eyes.  Ron and Hermione exchanged another look, though this was one of wonder.  Why hadn't anyone told him?  

"Where do we start?" Hermione asked aloud.

"Could just hand him a history book," Ron answered blandly.  "There are plenty of accounts."  Hermione shot him a glare.

"Harry, do you know about You-Know-Who?"

"Who?"

"You-Know-Who."

"No, I don't know who."

"You-Know-  oh, Voldemort, Harry.  Lord Voldemort."

Harry appeared frozen, all color drained from his face, staring forward, though at nothing.  It was as if he was caught in a waking dream, unaware of anything around him.  In the ensuing silence, Ron looked over curiously, then suddenly jumped at Harry, who's face was taking on a blue tinge.

"He's not breathing!"  He was slapping Harry on the cheek.  "Harry?  Harry, snap out of it.  Breathe, mate!  Hermione, what's happening?"

"I don't know.  He's- he's panicking.  Lean him over."   They pushed Harry's head between his knees.  Then, Hermione jumped to her feet, intent on finding Madame Pomfrey.  Her hand was on the door knob, when she heard a deep gasp of breath, followed by another even deeper and Ron's encouragement.

"There you go.  Keep breathing.  Fill your lungs all the way."  He looked up at Hermione, his face white with terror, then back down at Harry, slapping him hard on the back as he began coughing.  

"What happened?" Hermione asked when Harry was calm again.

"I've seen him," he answered weakly.  "I've seen him torture people and kill them.  He enjoys-."

"Hermione, maybe you should go get Professor Dumbledore."

"No!" Harry shouted.  "You have to tell me!  What does he have to do with my parents?"

"He killed them, Harry.  Years ago, he killed your parents."  He was hesitant to continue until Harry turned his pleading eyes on him.  "He tried to kill you too, when you were a baby, but he couldn't.  He just- vanished.  That's where you got your scar."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why did he kill them?  Why did he want to kill me?"

"I- I don't know.  You'll have to ask Dumbledore."

Harry's hands hung between his knees, his head down so his forehead brushed his fingers.  Ron and Hermione couldn't tell whether or not his eyes were closed, or what he was thinking.  He didn't even look up when he spoke to them again.

"Please leave."

"Harry," Hermione said, "maybe we should get Professor Dumbledore."

"No.  Please, just go.  I just need to think."

Silently, the pair moved toward the door, throwing worried looks back toward their friend.

"Do you want us to come again tomorrow?" Ron asked.

"Yes.  Yes, I'll see you tomorrow."

Ron nodded, and they left.

"I'm worried," Hermione said as they walked down the corridor together.  "Harry was acting really strangely.  What if something's wrong?"

"'Mione, we just told him his parents were dead.  Murdered, to be exact.  It was hard for him before when he knew they were dead, but didn't know how.  But this time-."

"He didn't know.  Ron, this is terrible!  Why couldn't we just wait until he has his memory back?  Why did you tell him and make him go through this again?"

"What if he never does?" Ron asked softly.  "He may never remember everything."  He was stopped by a tug on his arm, and turned to find Hermione staring up at him, angry and scared.

"Don't say that."

"Don't say what?"  He shrugged.  "It's a real possibility."

"No.  It's Harry.  That can't happen."

Ron cupped her face with both hands, looking down into her eyes with both desperation and fear.

"Hermione, I don't want that to happen.  You know that.  Harry is my best friend, and I hope everything will be back to normal, but at the same time I can't help wondering… maybe you're right."  The look in his eyes changed suddenly, became pensive.

"What are you talking about?"

"What if it's better for him never to remember?  I mean, think about it.  Harry has faced more evil and danger in real life than we have in our worst nightmares.  He has had everyone taken away from him, and every day, there's someone or something trying to kill him.  Maybe it is best if he doesn't know."

"Is this your 'Ignorance is Bliss' theory?"  She rolled her eyes at his smile, and they continued down the corridor.  "You know, that old saying, 'What you don't know can't hurt you'?  It's wrong, especially in Harry's case."

"Yeah, I know.  But you can't blame me for looking out for my best mate."

"Is he?"

"Of course!  Come on, don't hold it against me that I was a little weirded out when we found him.  I mean, he'd been dead for over three months, and then we find he doesn't know who he is.  Don't tell me you were comfortable around him the whole time."

Hermione made no answer, but only smiled up at him as the turned down the last staircase to get to the entrance of the tower.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Ron said after a long interval of silence.

"Don't be.  I was a little weirded out too, to tell the truth.  He was just so- different."

"I'm not talking about Harry," he said, stopping in the corridor in front of the Fat Lady's portrait.  "For what I said to you yesterday morning.  I didn't mean it the way it came out.  It had nothing to do with… kissing you."  His shoes suddenly became very interesting.  "I mean, I didn't really mind that at all.  Well, not unless you did."

"Huh?  Oh, no.  I mean, it wasn't so bad."

Both simply stood there, observing every detail of the floor and shoes, saying nothing, but stealing glances at each other.

"Look," the Fat Lady boomed, causing both Gryffindor Prefects to jump, "either kiss her or tell me the password, but don't just stand there doing nothing!"

Ron smiled nervously at the portrait, then at Hermione, who's own embarrassed look rivaled his own.  Slowly, he inclined his head, watching her carefully for any sign that he would be deterred, and seeing none, inched closer, wrapping his arms around her, drawing her nearer.  Much more slowly, he bent down, closing his eyes, and touched his lips to hers.  She did not lean away or pull from him as he half expected her to.  In fact, she leaned into him, returning the ardent fervor of the action.  If either of their minds were racing going into this, both were calm now, for this was not the relaxed kiss of an old couple, but of ageless lovers, who rediscover passion each time their eyes meet.  The long yearned-for first kiss of friends who had found love.

"Well!" the Fat Lady interjected, fanning herself, when they had finally separated.  "If I'd have thought that was going to happen, I would never have mentioned it!"

"Aurora borealis," Ron said, not taking his eyes off Hermione.

"I should say so!" the portrait exclaimed, as it fell open, allowing them to enter.  "No need for me to wish sweet dreams," she sighed.  "After that, I don't know how any of us could not."

Harry lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling.  Sleep would not come to him, not that he wanted it to.  There was too much on his mind, too much he still needed to understand.  Besides, who knew what lingered in sleep?  More nightmares, most likely.  Harry had enough nightmares when he was awake.  He didn't need them in his sleep as well.  Especially when he knew exactly what would comprise them.

_"He killed them, Harry.  Years ago, he killed your parents."_

Voldemort.  Finally, he had a name for this presence in his head.  He had a name for the voices, the torture, the terror.

_He killed my parents and he's in my head.  Or I'm in his.  Why didn't they tell me?  Dumbledore and Remus and McGonagall and Snape and all the other people who've been looking in on me, they never told me.  Were they hiding it?  Surely they knew._

Suddenly, Harry wanted to know more than anything what else he had forgotten.  He wanted his memory back.  He wanted his life back!  A voice in his head whispered exactly what he had to do: Legilimency.

¤¤¤¤

"Sirius?" Lupin called as loudly as he dared without waking Mrs. Black.  "Sirius, where are you?"

"I'm in here, Remus."  Lupin stopped in his tracks and walked back in the direction he had come from to find Sirius standing in the doorway of his father's office.

"What are you doing in there?"

"Cleaning," he answered blandly.  He moved aside to afford Lupin a view of a room that had not been cleaned, but gutted.  The only items that remained were a large oak desk and a shelf of books, which, as Lupin leaned closer, he discovered to be books on the Dark Arts.

"Sirius, half of these books you can't find anywhere.  And this one isn't even supposed to exist," he said, taking one book into his hands and examining the spine.

"Want it?  Take it.  The only reason I haven't destroyed them yet was so you could take what you wanted."  Remus made an inarticulate noise in his throat and placed the book back on the shelf.

"Somehow, I get the feeling that just reading one of these would seriously maim me."

"Who says I never give you anything."  Sirius ran a hand through his hair.  "So what did you need me for?"

"Nothing, really.  Just seeing how you are."  He blinked up at his friend.  "How are you?"

"Let me think.  My godson is at Hogwarts with amnesia, being tutored by Snivellus.  I'm stuck here in a house I detest.  And all the while, Voldemort is planning how to destroy Harry and Dumbledore and pretty much anyone else he doesn't like, which means everyone I care about.  I'd say I'm not doing too badly."

"Ah, sarcasm.  The language of a frustrated Sirius Black."

"And it only took you twenty-five years to figure that out."

"I've always been a quick learner."  He was smiling, though the smile did not extend to his eyes.  "Albus said that Ron and Hermione are working with Harry now.  He expects he'll be making progress with them helping."

"That's good."

"Ron told him this morning that Harry remembered something last night.  The name of a move he used to do in Quidditch."

"That's it?"

"It's something.  And apparently you've been spotted in the South of France.  Been out tanning?"

"Wouldn't know.  You'll have to ask Kingsley.  He's my travel agent these days."

This time, the smile did include Lupin's eyes.

"I've been asked to train Harry to defend himself again."

"I figured as much," Sirius answered, opening a cupboard and pulling out scrolls to place in the dust bin.  "You're a good teacher.  Harry trusts you."

"He doesn't know me anymore."

"He trusted you before.  He will again."

"You're taking this much better than I thought you would," Remus commented, looking both amused and surprised.

"If it helps, I'm absolutely furious I can't do it, and will smash a great many things as soon as your back is turned."

"Definitely much better than I thought you would."

¤¤¤¤

Ron paced the Quidditch pitch, glancing down at his watch every two minutes.  For nearly a month, he and Hermione had been making their way up to Harry's room nearly every night to play chess and talk.  Talk generally went one of two ways: their past adventures and Quidditch.  Ron and Hermione always tried to steer the conversation back toward Quidditch whenever Harry began asking questions about his parents or You-Know-Who, until finally, Harry stopped bringing it up and began asking more and more questions about classes and classmates.  

It seemed that just talking to him was helping.  Every time they visited, Harry excitedly told them about what he was learning from the different professors who had been dropping by his room, reteaching him the spells and information he should already know.  Often, Harry was able to master the spell as soon as it was taught to him, as if he needed only a reminder.  This was especially true with his Defense lessons.  He most looked forward to Remus Lupin visiting the school on Tuesdays, as his lessons were the most fun for Harry.  He was refilling his brain faster than ever, and with this knowledge, came more memories, usually disjointed and confusing, but after a long talk with his friends, he could understand what the memories were.

Ron couldn't hide his smile as Hermione stepped onto the pitch, though it took more self-control than he ever suspected he possessed to restrain himself from throwing his arms around her then and there.  Unfortunately, they needed to impress the familiar on Harry, and he and Hermione snogging was certainly not the familiar.

"Is it all clear?" Hermione asked as she drew nearer.

"Yeah.  You can come out now, Harry."  The Invisibility Cloak was torn away and Harry was suddenly standing amid them.  Ron bent down and plucked the two broomsticks from the grass: his own new Cleansweep and Harry's Firebolt, which had taken up residence in the school storage shed.

"Are you sure about this, Harry?" Hermione asked, watching him ogle the shiny broomstick.

"Are you kidding?  I've been dying to try this!"

"Right," Ron coughed out.  "Uh, Hermione, take Harry's cloak and keep an eye out for, well, anyone.  I'll take Harry up for a few minutes."  She began to walk back in the direction when whence they came, wrapping the cloak around herself as she went, and disappearing suddenly before their eyes.  "All right then, Harry.  Shall we?"  He mounted his broom, saw Harry do the same, then quickly explained how to push off.  Harry listened eagerly, and within just a few minutes, both were in the air, zipping back and forth across the pitch.  Ron stopped and simply watched Harry for a long time.  He knew he was a natural, having seen the display he had put on his very first time in the air, but this?  Harry was flying as if he had never forgotten how, executing complicated rolls and steep dives, and for the longest time, Ron forgot everything Harry had been through.  He was just Harry, zooming about on his broom.

Ron motioned Harry down after twenty minutes, and when he touched down, his green eyes were glowing and his face was flushed.  Harry shouldered his broom and walked over to Ron as if they had just finished a regularly scheduled practice.

"What?" he grinned, noticing that Ron was gaping at him.

"Nothing," he answered.  "It's just so weird.  I mean, you're you, but you're _not you_." 

"Huh?"

"I don't know.  It's like- it's hard to explain.  You just, you do things that are so obviously Harry, but at the same time, you don't even remember Harry."

"Ron, I _am_ Harry."

"I know that-."

"-But you don't believe it."  Harry sighed heavily, then looked up at the boy he knew was his friend, even if he couldn't remember how they met until the story had been told to him.  "Look Ron, I am Harry, even if I can't remember everything.  It's coming back to me in bits and pieces.  Sometimes it's a word that just pops randomly into my head.  Sometimes it's an image, like looking into a mirror and seeing a bunch of people standing around me I know aren't there.  But I know who I am.  I am Harry Potter.  I just wish you would realize that too."

Ron opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Hermione appeared before them.

"Your brothers are coming, Ron.  Harry, you'd better put this on."  She held out his cloak, but Harry didn't take it.  He was staring at Ron.

"I'm sorry," Ron told him.

Harry smiled, then looked over at Hermione.

"Is it Fred and George?  The one's you said were on the Quidditch team with me?"

"Yes."

"Then I think I'd like to meet them- again."

"But Professor Dumbledore said-."

"Ron?  Hermione?"  Two identical red heads were walking toward them across the darkened pitch, each with a broomstick leaning on their shoulder.

"Who's with-?  Fred, it's Harry!"  Both boys broke into a run, practically running into Ron in their haste to see their long lost Seeker.

"What the hell?"  Fred exclaimed.  "How-?"

"When-?"

"What-?"

Harry was laughing as both boys struggled to ask their questions.

"How long have you two known?" George demanded, rounding on Ron and Hermione.

"For about a month," Ron answered.

"Professor Dumbledore made us promise not to tell," Hermione added.

"And you didn't tell us?" Fred said, sounding hurt.

"Wait, are you in hiding, Harry?  Why haven't you been to the tower?  Or to practice?"

"We all thought you were dead!"

Harry's smile broadened.  

"I've heard that a lot lately."  

"So where were you?"

"Wait!  Ginny should be here soon.  Wait for her."

"Ginny's coming?" Ron asked.  "Why?  What are you guys doing out here?"

"Extra practice," Fred answered with a grin.  "We figure we can't count on your stellar skills to win the Cup this year, so we wanted to make sure the rest of the Weasley's were up to snuff."

"But now that Harry's back, I guess we don't need to worry about it," George added, slapping Harry on the back.

Suddenly, a red-headed girl, Ginny, appeared behind the twins and froze, staring up at Harry with her mouth hanging open.  A momentary image of a much younger Ginny staring up at him in a similar fashion, almost afraid to speak, flitted into his mind before disappearing again.  This one, however, spoke.

"Harry?"  The confusion was apparent as she tried to form her thoughts into actual sentences.  "What-?  How-?"

"Surprisingly," Fred said, "we just asked those _exact_ same questions.  Well Harry?  What? And How?"

"I'm not exactly sure about all of it," Harry said, suddenly wondering how to explain this without Professor Dumbledore there.

"Come on, Harry.  Just tell us what you remember," George said helpfully.

"That is kind of the problem."   

Ron and Hermione took turns retelling the story as they had heard it from Professor Dumbledore, while the other Weasley siblings took turns staring at Harry open-mouthed and asking questions.  Fred laughed out loud when they were told where Harry had been found, at which George handed him a single sickle, grumbling something about Luna Lovegood.

"So you don't remember anything?" Ginny asked when the story had been told.

"It comes to me," Harry answered.  "Like, just now, when you walked up here, I remembered you being really shy around me once.  You were peeking out at me from… from behind a door.  Ron had told me it was your bedroom."

"You remembered that just now?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, but I can't remember why I was at your house, or how long ago it was, except that you looked much younger," he said to Ginny.

"Summer between our first and second years," Ron answered.  "Fred, George, and I picked you up in Dad's car and brought you to The Burrow until school started.  That's when Ginny was all weird for the summer."

"That's really good, Harry," Hermione told him in an excited voice.  "That's a really specific memory."

¤¤¤¤

"All right, Harry," Remus Lupin said, removing his cloak from his shabby robes, "we're going to work on your shielding spell tonight."

Harry nodded, holding his wand loosely in his fingers, and walked to the center of the transfiguration classroom.  He was watching his instructor carefully.

"Remus, why are you teaching me and not a professor?"

"I was a professor here, Harry, year before last.  I taught you Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"But you're not anymore."

"No, I'm not.  I resigned that same year."

"So, why isn't the current professor teaching me?"

"Perhaps because Professor Dumbledore feels that you trusted me once.  It may help your memory to work with me rather than someone you don't know."  He looked at Harry quizzically.  "What's wrong, Harry?" 

"Nothing.  I'm just trying to remember, that's all."

"You look like there's something more you'd like to ask."

_"Harry, don't trust him, he's been helping Black get into the castle, he wants you dead too- he's a werewolf!"_

"Harry?"

"How long have you known Sirius?"

"We went to school together with your father."

_"You killed my parents."_

_"I don't deny it."_

Harry's head was swimming.  What did this mean?  Why was he suddenly remembering it now?  He felt very cold, as if he had just been doused with cold water.  

"Harry, are you all right?  You look ill."  Harry swayed on his feet, but Remus caught him and led him to a chair to sit down.  "Harry, what is it?  Are you remembering something?"

Harry looked up into those pale green eyes, wondering whether or not he could trust this man.  But he had trusted him before.  He knew he had.  He could feel it just being in the room with him.

_"Get away from me, werewolf!"_

"Remus, is Sirius Voldemort?"

"What?"  A look of horror crossed Lupin's face, and he seemed unable to speak for a few seconds.  "Tell me why you ask."

"Ron told me that Voldemort killed my parents.  But just now… Sirius told me once that he killed them.  Is he Voldemort?"

"Oh."  He appeared thoughtful for a few moments.  "Harry, though I don't think Ron aught to have told you yet about your parents, yes, they were killed by Voldemort many years ago, but Sirius did not.  They are not the same person.  It is a very complicated story to tell, and I myself only learned the truth of it about a year ago."

"Then why did he tell me that?"

"Sirius blamed himself for years for your parents' deaths, and was even sent to prison for it, but Harry, he committed no crime.  Your parents went into hiding and your father and Sirius trusted someone with that secret who should not have been trusted.  That someone told Voldemort where they were, and your parents were killed.  If Sirius told you he killed your parents, he was referring to that trust, which ultimately led to their deaths."

"Who was it?"

"Not tonight, Harry.  You seem rather worked up as it is."  He eyed the boy warily.  "Perhaps we should cancel the lesson tonight?"

"No, no, I'm all right."  He slid off the chair and stood in the middle of the room again.  "Shielding, right?  Protego?"

Lupin nodded.

_"Expelliarmus!"_

_"Prote- oh!"_  Harry's wand was pulled from his grasp and landed deftly in Remus' outstretched hand.

"You must be faster, Harry.  Try again."  He threw the wand back.

_"You're armed- we're not.  Now will you listen?"_

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

_"Expelliarmus!"_

_"Protego!"_

"Excellent, Harry!  Well done."  His smile faded as Harry looked up at him with another question in his eyes.

"Remus, I'm not sure how to ask this-."

"Yes, Harry."

"Are you a werewolf?"

"Allow me to repeat, 'Yes, Harry.'  I must say, I've been expecting that question since you began questioning me on Sirius' guilt.  You did, afterall, learn the truth of both matters in the same evening."  He sighed and slipped his wand up his sleeve.  "Tell you what, let's put off tonight's lesson and just a have a talk.  You may ask me anything you like, within reason, of course, without being interrupted with a lesson."  Harry's face lit up at the prospect.  None of the other adults had promised to answer questions like this.

"You're really a werewolf?"

"For the third time now, yes, Harry," Remus told him, trying not to laugh at Harry's sudden renewal of energy.

"And I knew before?"

"If you didn't, what made you ask tonight?"

"Good point." 

¤¤¤¤

The first Occulmency lesson had most certainly not gone as the Potions Master had planned.  He had been more than distracted by the memories he had found in Potter's head.  Memories that could in no way be his own.  One in particular had thrown him.

So Potter had seen his torture at the hands of the Dark Lord.  He had been in his head even then, watching as he had writhed on the ground in immense pain.  These images, watching himself through another's eyes, had distracted him, momentarily drawing the memory back into his own mind, allowing Potter to, quite forcibly, purge him from his head so powerfully that Snape had been thrown across the room.  Then the boy had run.

Snape hadn't been surprised when Dumbledore came to him the next morning with the news that Weasley and Granger had discovered Potter the previous evening.  As soon as he had seen Weasley in the dungeon, he knew it would only be a matter of time.

Very well.  The lessons had to continue.  Dumbledore began attending many of the lessons, always sitting in a chair well behind Potter where he could not be seen, always with his head lowered and his eyes closed, as if asleep.  But, Snape knew the Headmaster was not asleep.  He was observing Potter's thoughts as Snape poked about in his mind, watching without interference unless his help was needed.

"Potter, you have not been successful in your attempts since our first lesson," Snape told him, pulling him up from the ground for what seemed the dozenth time in the last hour.  "You are not concentrating."

The boy made no reply.

Snape leaned back against a table and pinched the bridge of his nose irritably.  These lessons were taking their toll on him.  They would wear on his energy under normal circumstances, but the added strain of trying to interpret the disconnected memories of an amnesiac was draining, even with Dumbledore's assistance.

Snape opened his eyes and glanced over Potter's shoulder at the Headmaster, who in turn, was watching him.  

"Last time, Potter," Snape said at last.  "Concentrate.  _Legilimens!_"

_Stop.  Stop.  Stop.  Stop._

Come Potter, push harder than that.

His thoughts were streaming through, almost too quickly for Snape to interpret them and place them together in the right order.  Pain, fear, wonder.  

_A white room with no furniture but a bed and a nightstand. _

_A large dormitory room containing five beds, each with a trunk at the foot._

Dormitory?  Does he remember this?  As quickly as the image came, it was gone, and Snape wondered for a moment if it had been real.

_A small bedroom with a bed and wardrobe.  Pain.  Fear.  A large man with a red face staring down at him, his lips moving angrily, but no words to be heard._

Potter's room at the Dursley house.  His uncle.

"Severus."

_Potter was grabbed and dragged from the room.  A long staircase appeared before him._

"Severus!"

_"Get out of my house!"  A rough shove.  Falling.  Screaming.  Mum?  Stairs rushed up at him._

A deluge of images shot at Snape too quickly.  They were jumbled, confused.

His own head felt like it was going to burst open.  Pain laced every new thought that forced itself on him.

_A flash of green light._

_Screaming._

_"I said get up!"_

_Cedric Diggory's dead eyes staring up at him._

_A large fang pierced his arm.  Poison spreading through his body._

_"You're dead, Harry Potter.  Dead."_

_"Crucio!"_

_"I wouldn't know.  I have never died."_

_"Avada Kedav-!"_

Darkness.

Dumbledore had been so relieved to see memories from before Harry's injuries, he had not discerned until too late what was happening until the other memories began to come through, each laced with all of Harry's pains and torture, as if triggered by this one memory.  Severus staggered, dropping his wand and grabbing his head with both hands.  Both he and Harry screamed.

_"Finite Incantatum!"_ Dumbledore cried, shooting up from the chair.

Severus collapsed.  Harry was huddled on the floor, holding his head and rocking himself back and forth, but appeared uninjured, physically, at least.  Dumbledore knelt next to the Potions Master.

"Severus?  Severus, can you hear me?"

He made no movement.  His half-closed eyelids revealed two black, unfocused half-moons, staring eerily, but seeing nothing.  With his thumb, Dumbledore lifted one of the eyelids open.  His pupils were fully dilated.

"Harry, are you all right?" Dumbledore called from beside Snape.

A whimper was his answer.

"It wasn't me… it wasn't me…"

_It begins…_

*  *  *

Ooh, what a cliffie!  Most of this chapter is marking the passage of time, giving you an idea of the memories Harry is regaining, how he's regaining them, and some of the confusion over what he's remembering (I think the Harry / Remus scene covers that one).  And just in case it wasn't clear from all the way at the beginning of the chapter, Harry's not even trying in Occulmency, because he's hoping the Legilimency will help him regain what he has lost (his memory, for those of you who haven't been paying attention).

Yea!  The Weasleys know!

Ooh, what happened to Snape?  _Hiss!_

Toodles!


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Sorry this took me so long.  For some reason, this chapter was hard for me.  Probably because of all the stuff happening with other characters.  It's all preparation.  I consider it the gathering winds before the storm.

Fear.  Dread.  Panic.  These emotions both paralyze us, and scream out for us to run.  Hypocrites of their own nature.  They are our saviours of emotions, foreshadowing evil things to come, yet the very feelings themselves cause us to freeze, prevent us from acting.  Self-preservation and self-destruction all in one.  They make us weak, pliable, human.  Shall we think of ourselves?  Or others?  At what cost?  Is bravery always in preserving the other before the self?  We cannot protect the other forever, for in the end, one truth is inevitable: saving the innocent will still result in their demise if that is what has been ordained.  After all, it is the will of the Fates.  The Fates shall not be denied.

Albus Dumbledore sat in quiet thought in a chair pulled to the side of Severus Snape's bed, where the younger man lay comatose, his dark hair and sallow skin contrasting dramatically with the crisp white sheets of the Hospital Wing.  Snape hadn't moved or uttered a sound in nearly an hour.  His eyes, staring eerily beneath half-closed lids, were unmoved, except to blink reflexively when Madame Pomfrey placed drops in them to keep them moist.  Each time she lowered his eyelids to cover his eyes, they slid slowly open again, undaunted in their haunted stare.

            Dumbledore was drawn from his thoughts by a thin hand on his shoulder.  He blinked as if newly awoken, and looked up at his Deputy Headmaster.

            "What happened, Albus?" she asked, her frail voice betraying her own fears in the young professor's health.

            "I was careless," he answered, looking back at Snape.  "I allowed my own concentration to waver, and it placed him in danger."

            McGonagall merely watched the Headmaster watching Snape, pushing down the fear and sadness at his own frail state.

            "Harry is distraught," she told him finally in a low voice.  "I'm finding it impossible to comfort him.  Perhaps we should send for Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley to stay with him."

            "No."  The shortness and voracity of the answer caused McGonagall to jump.  "No," he said much more gently.  "Do not allow either Mr. Weasley or Ms. Granger to visit Harry tonight.  Contact Remus or go yourself, but do not allow the others into his room."

            "Albus, Harry could not have injured Severus like this.  Do not punish him-."

            "I am not punishing him, Minerva.  And I agree, Harry alone could not have injured Severus, not in this way."

            "What do you mean?"

            "There was a surge in Harry's mind, causing all of his most haunting and terrifying memories to be pushed forth, against Severus' will.  It was this surge, I believe, which has caused this current state."

            "Albus?"

            A sigh of great weight followed.

            "Voldemort, Minerva.  I believe he was attempting to enter Harry's mind after a month of silence.  Perhaps he perceived that I, too, was there and attempted to strike out at me, in which case, Severus absorbed the mental blow.  Or perhaps he has become much stronger than even he knows, and this was purely an accident.  I do not know.  But for the time being, I do not want another student to be allowed to visit Harry, for their own safety."

            It was not until much later in the evening, when the rest of the castle was long asleep, that Dumbledore found his way up to Harry's room.  He knocked softly and was greeted by a somber looking Remus Lupin, who slipped into the hallway to speak with his former Headmaster.     

            "How's Severus?" he asked in a low voice.

            "His state is unchanged," came the grave answer.  "Poppy refuses to even venture a guess when he will awaken."  Remus nodded.  "How is Harry?"

            "Scared, mostly.  Scared of the memories he saw, scared of what happened to Severus, scared of what's happening to him."

            "Did he tell you about his memories?"

            "Only that they terrified him."  Remus looked uncomfortable for a moment.  "Did he really remember being thrown down the stairs?"

            A solemn nod was his answer.

            "I can't imagine what it must be like for him," Remus continued,  "to have these terrible nightmares of truth in his head, but unable to recall much else in them."

            Another nod.

            "Is he sleeping now?"

            "No," Remus answered.  "He's curled up on his bed, but I don't think he's even blinked since I came.  It's as if he's afraid to fall asleep."

¤¤¤¤

            Harry, indeed, lay on his bed, knees drawn up protectively, staring at a spider spinning its silken web in the corner.  He dared not fall asleep or even close his eyes.  Were it not absolutely necessary, he probably wouldn't allow himself to blink.  Each blink of his eyes was sheer terror.  Would those images of violence and hatred dance again before the black curtain of his closed eyelids?  Would the voice return?  Would it continue to whisper?  Harry kept his eyes open until they burned and he was forced to blink, the terror always gripping him tightly in that split second of darkness.

            _It's all your fault._

Harry stiffened.  Was it the voice?  Or his own conscience?"

            _Silly, weak little boy, trying to play grownup-_

            Harry buried his face in his pillow, willing the words to stay out if his mind.

            _-see what you've done?  Do you see the pain you've caused?_

"No," he whimpered into the thick pillow.  "I didn't mean to."

            _Haven't you seen the way they look at you?  They loathe you.  Can't you see it in their faces?  The way they avoid you?  _

"It's not true."

            _Where is the headmaster?  Where are your friends?  They've left you to the half-breed, the werewolf.  Perhaps he'll kill you._

"He wouldn't."

            _They fear you, just as the Muggles did._

"They didn't."

            _Freak.  That's what they called you.  They tried to kill you too._

"It- it was an accident."

            _And your headmaster tried to protect them for it.  He wanted you dead._

"No."

            _They fear you.  _

"No!"

            _They all fear you._

"Stop!"

            _They want you dead._

"STOP!"

            The door slammed open and both Lupin and Dumbledore were in the room instantly, wands out.  Seeing Harry face down on the bed, his faced pressed into a pillow, screaming, Dumbledore put away his wand and went to the side of the bed, while Lupin began checking the room.

            "Harry," Dumbledore said, taking him by the shoulders and gently turning him over.  The boy looked up at him with round terrified eyes, cheeks glistening with tears.  "What is it?"

            "Lies," he whispered.  "They were all lies."  He shrugged out of the headmaster's hands and scooted as far across the bed as he could, placing himself out of reach to those who would comfort him.  He didn't want to hurt them too.

¤¤¤¤

            Early the next morning, Minerva McGonagall stood rigidly next to Snape's bed, her gaze worried and motherly as she looked down over his still form.

            "Severus, how you manage to get yourself into this position…"  She smiled wryly, imagining the prone professor to suddenly animate if only to argue with her that it was not his doing, and that his idea of a good time was not poking about in Potter's empty head looking for intelligence or the remnants of a Dark Wizard.  No doubt his razor tongue would spew more descriptive, and more vulgar, terms for Potter upon his awakening.

            Potter.  

            The smile fell from McGonagall's face.  There were so many questions still surrounding Potter and his link to Voldemort, most especially with Snape in his current condition.  Most worrisome was that Dumbledore didn't seem to really understand what was happening either.  

            But how Potter was suffering over this.  And though McGonagall would never question it aloud or even seriously, a very small portion of her mind had to wonder, just how dangerous was he?  

            She reached down and gently squeezed Snape's hand, which lay lax next to his body.

            "Don't worry, Severus," she told him in a low voice.  "We'll find a way to bring you back."  She studied his face for just a moment, looking for any sign of life in the death stare he maintained.  Any blink, any minute shift in his eyes would not have escaped her attention.  Alas, nothing.  She brushed a stray hair away from his face, then turned and left the Hospital Wing.  Classes would begin soon.

            Silence hung heavily over the long room containing two long rows of beds and only one patient.  The room was darkening.  Shadows creeped into the corners and farther into the room.  Darkness fell.

            One waxy hand lay next to the body of the Potions Master, whose only movement in twenty-four hours had been the rise and fall of his chest.  Ever so slightly, the fingers on that hand straightened, then curled again into a loose fist, before relaxing to their original position.  A reassuring squeeze of a hand, which had left his several hours before. 

¤¤¤¤

            A tall figure appeared framed in the doorway before moving swiftly to the side of the only occupied bed.  There was a rustle of cloth as the figure sat, his long white beard touching the top his lap as he leaned toward the Potions Master, catching the dark half-moon eyes in his own.

            "_Leglimens,_" was whispered.  A surge of disjointed thoughts rushed forth.

            _"Tell me, Severus, how long have you been in the service of Lord Voldemort?"_

_            "Three years," came the meek reply.  Dark eyes flicked toward Dumbledore's face, but refused to meet his gaze._

_            "Need I tell you how I feel about this?"_

_            No answer.  Silence stretched as the young man sat absolutely still.  Finally, in a motion so quick it startled the old Headmaster, Snape rose to his feet._

_            "I will turn myself in.  I have no fear of paying my due for my crimes."_

_            "No, Severus," came the answer with an outstretched hand.  The younger man halted.  "What will be the good of suffering the rest of your life in Azkaban?"_

_            "Sir?"_

_            "It will right none of your wrongs, except that you will suffer your mistakes until you die or are insane."_

_            "Isn't that fitting?"_

_            "For some, perhaps.  But perhaps, there is a way for you to give back what you have taken."_

_            "What do you mean?"_

_            "You will return to the Master you serve.  You will spy on him.  Help us bring him down."_

_            "You don't know what you ask."  His voice wavered, in one of the boy's few moments of true fear._

_            "I know exactly what I ask.  And I know what the risk will be to you.  My question for you, Severus, is how badly do you wish to make amends for your crimes?"_

_            "Spy for you?  What makes you think you can trust me?"_

_            "The mere fact that you are here."_

_            "Perhaps I am here for the Dark Lord, trying to find weakness in an old fool."_

_            "Are you?"  Those dark eyes raised for the first time, meeting his in fierceness and anger.  They were aged beyond his years, tired, scared, but angry beyond all else._

_            "No," came the stout answer.  "I would take my own life before I serve him again."_

¤¤¤¤

            Remus Lupin was dozing upright in a chair, his chin to his chest, when he was disturbed by a small sound.  He raised his head, eyes closed, listening intently.  There it was again: a whimper, soft, as if someone was hiding their pain.

            Lupin rose from his chair and crossed the room to where Harry lay curled on the bed.  Exhaustion had finally overtaken him, forcing his eyes to close, but with it came nightmares Lupin could only guess at.  He reached out, gently grasping Harry's shoulder, and the boy stilled.  Whether he was awake or merely comforted by the presence of another in his tormental rest, the former professor did not know, but Harry relaxed, and after several minutes, his breathing steadied again.  Silence prevailed.

¤¤¤¤

            Sirius Black paced.  It was a habit he had always had, whether he was nervous or angry or thinking.  Right now, he was all three.  Something had happened during Harry's lessons with Snape, and Snape had been injured.  Remus had been summoned to stay with Harry.

            Remus.  Not Sirius.

            But what had happened?  Not that Sirius liked the slimy git, but that he had been injured worried Sirius.  No, _how _he had been injured.  Poking about in Harry's head during an Occlumency lesson.  From what Remus had said, Snape was a vegetable.

            Harry's not capable of that.

            Impossible.

            Who else was in Harry's head?

            Sirius didn't even need to ask the question before he knew the answer.  

            Voldemort was obviously still firmly imbedded in his godson's head, and he was not happy to have someone else tampering with it.

            Running a shaking hand through his hair, Sirius stood indecisive for a few seconds, looking around at the faded furniture of his inherited house.  He was told to stay put.  Dumbledore's direct order.  But Harry needed him.  After what seemed to him an eternity, Sirius transformed into the huge black dog mid-turn, and bounded down the hallway of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and out the door.

            He had to protect Harry.

¤¤¤¤

            Severus?  It's time to come back now.  You cannot allow yourself to be tortured by your past.  There is nothing that can be done about it.  You must move on.

            _A seven year old Severus Snape cowered in a corner as his parents screamed back and forth in front of him.  He tucked his head under his arms, trying to make himself as small as possible.  He wanted to disappear._

You're not a child anymore.  These are only memories.  They cannot harm you unless you allow them to.

            _The same scared little boy stood before Lord Voldemort.  His jaw was set resolutely, but the same fear existed in his eyes as he held out his left arm.  A glowing white brand was pressed into the soft underside of his forearm, but the boy did not scream.  He bit down on his lip, holding in all the pain and fear at his decision.  His lips reddened with his own blood._

Do you still believe you are that same scared little boy?  You're not helpless.  And you're not alone.  You do not have to face this alone.  We can help you.

            _Again, the same seven year old, dressed in Snape's black Death Eater robes, stood before the Headmaster's desk, a mask clutched in his trembling hand.  He looked so tiny standing there, a miniature version of himself.  The young boy cast Dumbledore a look of pure fear, then crossed to the door._

            "Never question my allegiance, Albus."  His voice sounded so impossibly small as he spoke these words.  "I would take my own life before I would willingly give it back to him."

Don't you see, Severus?  This is not a moment of fear, but of strength.  It was not the scared little boy who spoke to me that evening, but a full grown man who had faced his fears.  You cannot convince me that anyone but an adult Severus Snape would say those words to me.  Or perhaps you were afraid I truly did not trust you?

            _An adult Snape had replaced the child, his hand still on the door, frozen, rather than leaving the room as he had in reality.  He looked at his memory of Dumbledore, sitting behind the large oak desk, then turned and looked at the Dumbledore standing right next to him, watching the memory unfold._

_            "Perhaps you should stay out of my head."_

So you can continue your walk down memory lane?  Do you even know where you are, Severus?  Your body is in the hospital wing.  You are not dead.  This is not your personal hell.

            _"I beg to differ."_

            Is this how you choose to finish your days?  Wallowing in your own weakness?  Perhaps I did not know you so well as I thought I did. 

            _"Perhaps not."_

            No.  Severus Snape would never allowed himself to become trapped like this.  He had a natural aversion to such public displays of weakness.

            _"Public?  What are you talking about?"_

            I told you, you are in the hospital wing.  You are lying in a hospital gown near the door, where any curious students can see you.  Unless, of course, you ask Poppy to move you into your private room.

            _"Bastard!"_

¤¤¤¤__

            Ron and Hermione were quietly playing chess near the fire of the Gryffindor Common Room, stealing secretive glances at each other and exchanging small smiles.  Practically everyone in the room knew what they were about, but that was no reason to go running about like third years with their first boyfriend or girlfriend.  After all, they were fifth years, and Prefects to boot, with a first relationship.

            Suddenly, a shadow descended over the board.  Ron glanced up to find two identical red heads hovering over them.

            "So, are you guys going to see Harry tonight?" Fred asked.

            "No," Ron answered, moving his knight.  "McGonagall said he wasn't feeling well."

            "What's wrong with him?" George asked.

            "Headache."

            "Headache?"

            "Yes," Hermione answered, "He's had a lot of them since the- you know."

            The twins exchanged a perplexed look.

            "It's been two days."

            "Well, you know he doesn't get _normal_ headaches," Hermione stressed softly.  "This one might be particularly bad."

            "And you haven't seen him since we were at the Quidditch pitch?"

            "No, we haven't, Fred.  Now will you go away?"  Ron shot both of his brothers a look that clearly said he did not appreciate their company.

            "Oh."  Fred frowned, feigning thought.  "So when are you going?"

            "We're not," Ron answered in exasperation.  "We're sitting here playing chess, and then we'll go to bed just like all the other students."

            "So, you're _not_ going," George said.

            "No," Ron nearly shouted.  He shot an annoyed look at his brother.  "Harry is resting and we are playing chess.  Now will you go away?"

            The twins' mouths gaped, faux fear in their eyes.

            "You sounded just like Mum," Fred told him, as they shuffled away.

            "Now I remember why we don't claim him as our brother," George said.

            "Your move, Hermione," Ron mumbled.  He glanced up.  She was frowning at him.  "What?"

            "You didn't need to snap at them."

            "They were annoying me."

            "And you don't need to snap at me."

            "I wasn't snapping."

            Her mouth flattened into a thin line as she reached out automatically and moved her king forward one space.  Now it was Ron's turn to frown.

            "Hermione, you do realize that you just placed your own king into check, don't you?"

            "Yes."

            "Why?"

            "I don't feel like playing anymore."

            "Why?  We were having fun!"

            "Ron, lower your voice!" she hissed.  Ron glanced around.  Everyone in the Common Room was watching them.

            "Mind your own business!" he snapped, drawing glares from several upperclassmen.  He turned back to Hermione.  "What's wrong?" he asked in a lower, though no less angry voice.

            "Nothing!" she huffed back, removing her pieces from the board.  

            "Then why did you just commit royal suicide?"

            Hermione sighed, dropped her pieces onto the board, and leaned forward on the little table on her elbows.

            "Ron, your brothers just wanted to know how Harry was.  They've only just found out he was alive, and got to talk to him for about an hour.  You had no right to snap at them.  He's their friend too."

"You know very well that had nothing to do with Harry.  They were just trying to annoy me!"

"If they were just trying to annoy you, they would have teased you about one of the myriad of things they usually tease you about."  She snapped shut the box that held her chess pieces.  "But Ron, I hate to break it to you, but I really don't think you were the center of their attention this time."

"You think I'm jealous."

"I didn't, but now that you mention it-.  Ever since we've found Harry, you've been two completely different people.  You've been you, Ron, who I love to hang out with and play chess with and talk to and everything else we do together.  And then you've been Ron, who can't keep his temper around little annoyances and snaps at people for no reason and who seems to be angry at the world for some deed no one else knows about."

            "What?"  Ron's mind instantly returned to _that_ night.  The night they had learned about Harry's death.  The night he had admitted to Hermione what he had never admitted to himself.

            "You heard me," she hissed.

            "That's a low blow."

            "I'm not saying this to try and hurt you, Ron."  She took his hand in hers, squeezing it reassuringly.  "It's like you're worried you're going to get shoved backstage once Harry comes back, but you're not.  You never were.  Nobody ever thought you were less than Harry.  At least, not anyone important."

            "You did."

            "No, I didn't."   She cocked her head to the side, studying him for a long moment.  "Ron, is that what you're afraid of?  That _we'll _go back to how we were?  That things will change between us once Harry is better?"

            Ron's lack of a response was all the answer Hermione needed.

            "Ron, I swear to you, nothing will change between us once Harry's back.  I will not think that you're lacking anything compared to him.  And I will not suddenly decide he's better than you.  I promise."

¤¤¤¤

            Albus Dumbledore waited patiently for some sign that Snape had returned from his memories.  He broke his connection and watched.  Slowly, Snape's hand moved, clutching the sheets that covered his body.  The eyes shifted over to him, staring daggers at the old man's amused face.

            The Potions Master's mouth moved, first into a slight sneer, then to form a soundless word.

            Liar.

            Dumbledore smiled.

            "Welcome back, Severus."

            More soundless words.

            Thank you.

            His dark eyes finally closed, and the man slept.


	16. Chapter 16

       A/N:  Oh goodness!  This took me forever!  I apologize, but I wanted to make sure I got it just right.  I hope you'll understand why as you read.  And it's extra long for your patience!!!  

There exists a veil of perception that disallows us from knowing all about our world.  We can only know what we can see and feel and hear.  But, does seeing, hearing, and feeling lead to truth?  That depends.  Does everyone speak and act truthfully?  We can be deceived, betrayed- sometimes by others, sometimes by our selves.  Deception and betrayal lead to anger. Anger makes us irrational.  Ration makes us human.  Do we not all wish to be human?  And yet we allow ourselves to be controlled by our anger when we feel it.  Who among us is truly strong enough not to react in anger?  Whether we are angry for moments or years, when our hearts are filled with anger, there is no room for love.  When there is no room for love, there is no light.  When there is not light, what are we but an empty husk, waiting to be filled?  But beware.  When we are so empty, we rarely have choices in what will fill us. 

            Dumbledore and McGonagall stood patiently by Snape's bedside where he had been stirring now for a quarter of an hour.  He was expected to awaken any time, but even these movements, drawing his hands to his chest, turning his face away from the window, and finally half covering his face with the crook of his arm, were a welcome sight to the Headmaster and his Deputy.

            "Albus, how did you bring him back?" Minerva asked softly.

            "Gentle coaxing," the Headmaster answered with a winsome smile.  "And a thorough understanding of Severus' personality."

            "Lying."  The voice was muffled under his protective arm, but a moment later, Snape peeked out from behind this barrier to scowl at his mentor.  "He lied to me."

            "Severus, how are you feeling?" Minerva asked, patting his arm gently.

            "The coma was less uncomfortable," he growled, covering his eyes again with his arm.  "Can somebody cover that blasted window?"

            The curtains slid into place, filtering all light from the room.

            "Are we feeling irritable this morning, Severus?" Dumbledore asked.

            Snape removed his arm from his face, but remained with his eyes closed.  Even the lights in the room were unbearable.

            "My head is pounding," he told them.  Then, cracking his eyes open a just enough to see, he questioned Dumbledore.  "What happened to Potter?"

            "Nothing," came the answer.  "He did not seem to suffer the same affects you did, beyond feeling guilty for your condition."

            "Not even a headache?" Snape asked, closing his eyes again.

            "Not a normal one."

            Snape's eyes opened again, concentrating fully on the aged wizard before him.  Not a normal one.  That meant it was his scar.  His scar meant the Dark Lord.  But Snape did not even have to voice this.  Dumbledore met his eyes and nodded.

            "Why?"

            "We do not know why, certainly not after such a long silence.  However, it seems that you absorbed whatever it is he was trying to force on Harry."

            "His own nightmares."

            Another nod.

            "Why?  What good would that do him?"  Snape had his hand pressed to his chin, his headache all but forgotten.  "He's weakening him," he said at last.  "It's easier for him to slip in when Potter is emotional.  Scared.  Angry.  The Dark Lord can feed off this.  Use it to his advantage."

            "We came to a similar conclusion," Dumbledore told him.  "Fortunately, at least for Harry, you were affected, and not he."

            But Snape did not hear this.  He was staring off silently, not hearing any of the remainder of the conversation between Albus and Minerva.  He had more on his mind than his headache.

¤¤¤¤

            Harry Potter was pacing his room, wearing the rug in his trek from the window to the door and back again.  He was beginning to feel claustrophobic, trapped.

            _Caged._

            I am not caged.  

            _Imprisoned.  They do not trust you.  Who can blame them, after what you've done?_

            Oh, shut up.

            _Why won't they let you leave?  Why can't you see your friends?_

They're protecting me.

            _Protecting you?  Or them?  All those students out in the courtyard, yet you are the only one they're protecting.  What single life is more valuable than all those?  What makes you so special?_

Nothing.

            You're the only one caged up in a tower.  You're the only one kept separate from the others.  

I don't know that.__

_            They never told you about your parents or how you got your scar.  What else aren't they telling you?  What else don't you know?_

I don't know a lot of things.__

_            No, you don't.  You don't even know who you can trust._

I can trust Ron and-.__

_            Ron?  He doesn't trust you.  He doesn't care who you are- only who you were._

-and Dumbledore-

            _Who hides things from you._

            -and Remus-__

_            The half-breed._

-and Sirius-

            _A criminal.  You're running out of choices.  You're running out of time._

¤¤¤¤

            Hermione hesitated outside the Hospital Wing as the voice of the Headmaster floated out into corridor.

            "We should watch him closely.  If there is any chance that what you suspect is true-."  He stopped in mid-sentence.  "Miss Granger, you may come in rather than standing outside the door."

            Hermione flinched at being caught listening in, then stepped into the large room, wrestling to hide her embarrassment.  The room was much darker than it would usually be at this time of day, and none of the beds were filled but one, occupied by Professor Snape, who was propped up by several pillows and now looking at the Gryffindor Prefect with an unreadable gaze.  He didn't appear angry or annoyed.  But there was something there.  Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall were both standing at his bedside, looking also at the girl who had just entered their midst.

            "Yes, Miss Granger?" McGonagall prompted with all the patience this interruption could muster.

            "Professors," Hermione began, not sure exactly who she should be addressing, "Ron and I haven't seen Harry in nearly four days.  We wanted to know if we could go see him tonight."

            "I am afraid that is not possible," McGonagall answered before the last of her request was out of Hermione's mouth.

            "But why?" she demanded a little too forcefully, looking from her Head of House to her Headmaster.  Catching their surprised faces, she lowered her tone to a less demanding, more argumentative one.  "I don't understand, Professor," she said, looking now at Dumbledore.  "We've been trying to help him. Harry's remembered so much in the last month that I can't understand why this therapy for him would just be halted like this.  He's making progress.  Good progress, and if you'd only let us spend more time with him, I'm sure he'll remember more than before."

            "Hermione," Dumbledore said, halting her before she could take another breath, "I am well aware of the good you and Ron have been doing Harry.  Every time I speak to him, he is more and more himself, remembering his past with better clarity.  Both you and Mr. Weasley are indeed good friends to care so much for Harry's well-being.  However, I must ask you both to respect what I have asked on this matter."  Sighing, Hermione looked away from the Headmaster's blue eyes, and he paused until her eyes met his again.  "I realize you think you are looking out for Harry's best interest, but remember, I am, as well."

            As much as she wanted to find an argument to counteract the old Headmaster, she could gather no thoughts or words to convey them.  It was as if her brain had agreed with him and shut down on her.  Or perhaps, deep down, she trusted that Dumbledore was doing the right thing, no matter how it disagreed with what she wanted.  With nothing more to argue or say, Hermione excused herself and headed toward the Tower to share with Ron the Headmaster's answer. 

¤¤¤¤

            Harry stood at the window in his room, his forehead pressed against the glass, watching the students on the grounds below.  He could see them below, lounging in the grass, talking animatedly, though none of their words reached him.  He was cut off from them.  He banged his head several times on the glass before turning quickly and looking with angry eyes around his room.__

_            Do you deny now that you are a prisoner?  That you are not trusted? They're not protecting you.  They're protecting them!_

Shut up.

            _They see the Darkness in you.  They know how powerful you are.  More powerful than even Dumbledore.  They are afraid of you._

I said, Shut up!

            _Yes, you did, but you have not told me I was wrong.  You know it as I do.  Deep down, you know you are filled with the Darkness: the anger, the hatred.  You are letting it consume you.  Let it out, boy.  Let it consume them.  _

Harry dropped onto his bed, head in his hands, willing himself not to cry out as his scar lit up with pain.  

¤¤¤¤

            "So?  What did he say?" Ron asked without looking up.  Hermione had entered his dormitory and thrown herself down on the bed in frustration as Ron rummaged through his trunk looking for a pair of warmer socks to wear for Quidditch practice.

            "Eefenno."

            "What?"

            "He said no," she repeated, lifting her face from his pillow.

            "Why?" Ron asked, sitting now on the bed next to where she lay.

            "He didn't say.  Just said for us to trust that he's looking out for Harry's best interest."

            "Maybe he's right," Ron said tentatively, feeling Hermione tense beside him.  "Maybe we should just trust him."

            "Ron!"

            "Look, don't start, Hermione.  I don't really have time to argue with you again. I'm just saying that maybe we should trust him.  We know he'd never do anything bad to Harry."  

            She flopped her face back down.  Ron raised an amused eyebrow.

            "You know, Hermione, ever since we found out Harry was alive, you've been acting more and more like him."

            "Why don't you go date him then?"

            "He's not as cute when he's angry," he answered, kissing her on top of her hair. He bounced from the bed and grabbed his Cleansweep from where it leaned against the bedpost.  "I have to go to practice.  You wanna walk with me to the pitch?"

            "Yeah," she answered, sliding from the bed.  He took her hand and they walked in silence down the staircase and through the Common Room, drawing stares from the few Gryffindors left who weren't quite used to their two fifth year Prefects dating, and out through the portrait.  

            "Did Professor Dumbledore say how long it will be yet?" Ron asked as they made their way through the castle.

            "No," she answered, biting on her bottom lip.  "I wonder if something happened that we're not allowed to see Harry."

            "Dunno," Ron replied, waving to Lee Jordan as they crossed paths in the corridor.

            "The last time we saw him was the night Snape was sent to the Hospital Wing."

            "Maybe Harry attacked him.  Finally got tired of the greasy git."

            "Unlikely, though.  If you had heard that happened, would you honestly believe it?"

            "No," he returned with a smile, "but I'd enjoy imagining it over and over."

            They were crossing the lawn now, the hoops of the Quidditch patch and surrounding stadium looming before them in the distance where a few members of the team could be seen flying laps to warm up.

            "Ron," Hermione said suddenly, "if there was a way we could see Harry, would you want to?"

            "Of course."

            "Even if it meant going against Dumbledore's wishes?"

            "You mean breaking rules?"  Ron faked an appalled look.  "Hermione, where could you have possibly picked up this habit of ignoring the rules?  How un-Prefectish of you."

            "Prefectish isn't even a word… and I'm serious.  Would you sneak up to see Harry?"

            Ron's face went suddenly serious, and without hesitation, he answered, "Yes."

            "Good."  She grinned broadly.  "I have a feeling Mr. Lupin will be leaving the door to Harry's room soon, and when he does, I'll sneak in and get Harry's cloak.  I'll leave it behind that statue near the stairs so you can come in after practice."

            "How do you know he's going to leave?"

            "Because he's the only one that can talk to Sirius when he's as mad as he is right now."  Ron followed her gaze toward the gates of the school, spying a rather large black dog limping toward the entrance, a very angry look on its canine face.  Hermione squeezed his hand, kissed him on the cheek, and reminded him to come upstairs as soon as practice was over, then ran for the castle to alert Lupin that his very pissed-off friend was on his way.

¤¤¤¤

            Moments later, Hermione was sprinting up the stairs toward the third floor corridor, breathing hard, but determined to reach Lupin before Sirius could be discovered by another staff member.  She hesitated at the top of the stairs just long enough to catch her breath, then ran to meet Lupin just outside Harry's door.

            "Professor Lupin!" she cried, forgetting for a moment that he was no longer her professor.

            "Hermione?  What's wrong?" he asked as soon as he saw her.

            "It's- It's Snuffles, sir.  He's out on the lawn, and I think he's injured!"

            "Find the Headmaster-."

            "I tried!  I don't know where he is!  You have to hurry!"  She seized his hand and began pulling him toward the stairs.

            "Hermione, I cannot-."

            "He's hurt!  Didn't you hear me?  I think something happened to him!"  She forced herself not to smile at his exasperated sigh.

            "All right, where is he?" he asked, following her now down the stairs.

            "He was just inside the gates when I saw him."

            "Find the Headmaster.  I'll see to- Snuffles."

            As soon as he was out of sight, Hermione turned and ran back up the stairs, triumphant that her scheme had worked so far.  She knocked tentatively at Harry's door, and as soon as he opened the door, too shocked at having a visitor to speak, she motioned for him to wait, grabbed his Invisibility Cloak from where it hung near the door, and ran to stuff it behind the statue near the staircase.

            Returning to the room, she was greeted by a still silent Harry.

¤¤¤¤

            "Really, Padfoot, you've gone too far this time," Remus muttered as he walked slowly beside the limping canine.  "Dumbledore will not be happy with this."

            The large black dog scowled at the man beside him, but continued in silence, forming a plan in his head to escape from his friend and sniff out Harry on his own, without having to see the Headmaster first.  Unfortunately, he was greeted by just the voice he did not want to hear.

            "I told you to stay home."

            Sirius raised his shaggy head and found the Headmaster standing in the doorway of the Hospital Wing, a disappointed look on his face.  Sirius pushed past him, into the Hospital Wing, and as soon as Remus had pulled the door closed, turned into his human form.  He folded his arms across his chest and stared stubbornly at his former Headmaster.

            "I'm here to see my godson."    

¤¤¤¤

            "Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione asked, concern apparent on her face.

            "Nothing," he answered quickly.  "My head just hurts."

            "Is it-?"

            "No," came the reply before she could even ask.  "Just a headache." 

            "Oh.  Do you want me to go?"

            "No.  I don't get too many visitors any more.  Please don't leave."

            "Are you sure?"

            "Yeah."  He ran his fingers through his hair, staring absently into the air.  "Just- just don't leave me here alone."

            Hermione bit her lip, unsure what to say to Harry for the first time in several weeks.  Though he had said very little, for some reason he seemed as lost as he had that night so long ago when she and Ron had snuck up to his room for the first time.  There was a great distance in his eyes, and Hermione knew him well enough to know that that distance was not a good thing.

            "Are you sure you're okay?"  She reached out, touching his shoulder to comfort him.  "You seem really- sad."

            "Why are you here?" he asked, looking up at her, though the question was not rude or demanding.  It was more curious, as if he had truly expected that he had been left up here and forgotten.

            "I was worried about you.  Ron and I both were."

            He seemed surprised for just a moment, before a small smile touched his lips.

            "Worried for me?"

            "Well of course, Harry," she replied, returning that smile.  "You're our best friend and we haven't seen you for a while.  Why wouldn't we be worried?"

            His smiled widened, and he too reached up and placed his hand on top of Hermione's.

            "Thank you.  You don't know what it means to hear that."  He wrapped his arms around her in a great hug.  Hermione returned the embrace, and even though she could not see his face, she felt him trembling.  He was crying as he held her.  

            'What has he been going through in here?' she wondered as she tightened the embrace.

            "Thank you, Hermione," he whispered.  

¤¤¤¤

            "What do you mean he's still hearing the voices?" Sirius demanded.  "I thought _Snivellus _was taking care of that!"

            Snape's face tightened.  Had he had his wand, Sirius would probably be lying in another bed in the hospital wing, deep in a coma.  As it was, he only scowled.  The insult on the tip of his tongue was stayed by Dumbledore's presence.

            "_Severus_ was helping him, Mr. Black," McGonagall countered.  "And it nearly killed him."

            "Pity it didn't."

            "Sirius."  Dumbledore did not raise his voice, but lowered it, a surer sign of his anger.  "We have been doing everything we can to help Harry- Severus more than anyone.  However, since this accident, we have had to be more careful.  We cannot risk any lives, especially of students, if Voldemort enters his mind again."  The Headmaster took a deep breath, calming himself before continuing.  "I myself have tried to go to Harry to help him, but he either refuses help or-."

            "You're keeping him locked up?!"  Sirius was furious now.  "He's a fifteen year old boy, Dumbledore!  You can't keep him locked in his room like some prisoner.  Merlin!  Do you even care for _Harry's_ well-being?" 

            "More than I should, in my position," came the soft reply.  "It is because I care so deeply for Harry that I do not place him in a position to harm his fellow students- his friends."  He was silent for just a moment before adding, "I would prefer he hate me for this, than himself for harming another."

            Sirius huffed loudly, drawing a cross look from Remus, who had remained silent up to this point.

            "I want to see my godson," he repeated, reminding both himself and the Headmaster why he had come here in the first place.

            "Very well.  Perhaps your presence will help him.  Remus, will you show Sirius to Harry?"

¤¤¤¤

Ron hurried through the hallways of Hogwarts, drawing annoyed looks from fellow students was he rushed through the corridors toward the third floor.  For once, he was excited that practice had been cancelled, thanks to a backfired Weasley prank, which had resulted in Fred, George, and an irate Katie and Angelina screaming back and forth across the pitch.  Ron hadn't seen what the actual prank was, but was quick enough to escape before the girls' anger could spread to engulf any red headed Weasley.

He raced up the stairs, and with a quick search, found Harry's Invisibility Cloak right where Hermione had promised it to be.  He slipped it on and hurried as quietly as possible toward Harry's door, finding it strangely unguarded.  Frowning, he slipped the cloak from his shoulders. 

¤¤¤¤

            Harry's lips brushed Hermione's temple.  She froze at the unfamiliar gesture from her friend… from any boy but Ron.

            "I love you."

            Bells went off in Hermione's head.  This was not like Harry.  It didn't even sound like him.  Rather, it was as if he was repeating the lines of some play.  Not only were the words all wrong, but Harry was never so openly about his feelings.  There was definitely something very- wrong- about this whole situation. 

"Harry," Hermione said, placing her hands on his chest and pushing him gently back.  "You're just confused.  You don't mean it, and even if you did, Ron and I-."

            "No," Harry answered.  "You really are the only person I can trust."  He touched her cheek.  "I care a lot for you."

            "Harry-."  Her protest was muffled by his lips pressing against her own.  She didn't even have time to register what was happening when another, more angry voice joined them in the room.

            "Hermione?  HARRY?"

            Hermione spun to face Ron, whose tall frame filled the doorway.  His face was crimson, his eyes burning.

            "Ron!  It's- it's not what-."  Again, her statement went unfinished as Ron had hurled himself across the room, pushing Hermione out of the way as his right fist closed, connecting hard with the side of Harry's face.

            Hermione screamed as Harry's head whipped back, his body turning from the momentum of the punch, before falling to his hands and knees, facing away from Ron.  She rushed to help Harry, but Ron caught her arm and whirled her around to face him.

            "You- you- I can't believe you!  How long has this been going on?!"

            "There's nothing going on!" she spat back.  "He's scared and confused, and you just punched him for no reason!"

            "No reason?"

            "It's not like he knew about us, Ron!  It was misplaced affection because I comforted him, and you just hit him!"

            "You let him!  You let him-!"  Ron's eyes widened suddenly as he looked down at the friend he had assaulted.  Stunned, Hermione, followed his gaze to where Harry was kneeling on the floor, holding his head in his hands, rocking, his nose nearly touching the floor.  But this was not what drew Ron's attention. It was the sound.  Harry was laughing, but it wasn't his laughter.  It was lower, maniacal.  The laugh of someone who had accomplished a goal they once thought impossible.

            "Harry?" Hermione asked, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

            "I will not be touched by Mudblood filth," Harry pronounced, turning to face his friends.  His whole appearance was changed.  His gaze was darker, duller.  His mouth twisted in an evil smile as he slowly rose to his feet.

            "Apologize, Harry!" Ron demanded, pulling his wand from his pocket.  "Apologize to Hermione!"

            "Or what?  You'll make me?  You are but a child, and no match for myself."  His wand was suddenly in his hand.  Would you like to see how it's done, child?  To make someone do something?"  The smile twisted into a sneer.  "_Imperio!_"

            Hermione's eyes widened as the curse left Harry's lips.  Ron's body relaxed, his eyes seeming to unfocus, as he slid down to his knees facing Harry.

            "My Lord," he said, declining his head in a respectful bow. 

            A low laugh emanated from Harry's throat.

            _"I had thought it would be the Mudblood to push him over the edge-"_

            "Harry, stop it!" Hermione screamed.  "Stop it!"  But Harry's eyes were focused squarely on the redhead before him.__

            "Quiet, Filth!" Ron shouted, looking at her with venomous eyes. 

_"-to break his trust, fill him with enough anger for me to take over-"_

            "Harry, stop!" she cried again, desperate for this charade to end.  Tears were streaming down her face.

            "You dare speak to the Dark Lord, Mudblood?" Ron demanded, turning his wand on her.

            _"-but it is you I must thank, Ronald Weasley, for filling him with enough anger for me to take over.  She filled you with jealousy.  Punish her!"_

            "Ron, please," she sputtered.  "Please, don't do this.  You have to fight him.  You know how."

            "_Impedimenta!_"  Ron's voice was firm as he cried out the spell.

            A great force slammed into Hermione, sending her flying across the room into the heavy stone wall opposite.  Pain shot through her body at the impact, her body bouncing from the stone and landing on the ground with a loud thud.

            A muffled groan escaped her throat.  Hermione's head was swimming as she opened her eyes and gazed pleadingly at her boyfriend.

            "Ron?"

            Her body suddenly flew upward, slamming hard against the ceiling before being allowed to fall back to the ground.  This time, she did not open her eyes, nor did she make any sounds.

            Ron Weasley towered over her, staring down with blank eyes and raised his wand one last time.

            "_Avada Kedavra._" 

            Harry smiled as the body glowed for an instant.  The Mudblood was dead.  He cut off his Imperious control, highly amused.

            Ron was still standing over the body, his wand arm extended when he regained control of himself.  His eyes were wide as he stared down at the body at his feet, then at the wand clutched in his hand.  The wand dropped from his hand, clattering to the floor and rolling away from him.

            "'Mione?"  The name was both a whisper and a sob as understanding dawned on him. The boy dropped to his knees, his hands hesitating above her, unsure what was happening.  Finally, he took her hand and pressed it to his lips.  "Hermione? Please wake up."  He reached out, touching her face.  Her skin was still warm.  "Hermione, please," he repeated, tears stinging his eyes as he fought to control his voice.  "Please, please," no more than a whisper as he again pressed her hand to his lips.  He was aware of nothing but the young woman before him and the slow rhythm of his breath.  He leaned over her, trying awkwardly to cradle her in his trembling arms, but froze, feeling the warm liquid thick on his fingers.  Withdrawing his hand from under her head, he found that his fingers were covered in her blood.  A low, heartfelt sob forced its way from his throat as he pulled her to him, burying his face in her hair.  The world had stopped for him, leaving nothing but himself and the body of Hermione Granger in it, until he heard the unenthusiastic applaud coming from behind him.  He turned slowly.

            "Well done, young Weasley.  You've killed your first Mudblood."  Harry stared at him with cold eyes.

            Blood pounded in Ron's ears as he stared up at his former best friend.  Hatred seethed.  He lowered Hermione back to the floor, planting a tender kiss on her forehead, then rose to his feet.

            "How could you, Harry?" he demanded.  "How could you do this?"

            "You will not call me by that name!" he yelled back, pointing his wand at the taller boy.  "You will refer to me more respectfully."  He smiled menacingly.  "I prefer 'My Lord.'"

            "I swear, I'll kill you," Ron promised, stepping forward.

            "You are but a child, and an unarmed one at that," Harry told him, brandishing Ron's own wand at him before pocketing it.  "Seeing as how you already know how to murder," he looked pointedly at Hermione, "I think I'll teach you about torture next.  _Crucio!_"

¤¤¤¤

            "So, how is Harry?" Sirius asked as they climbed the stairs to the third floor.

            "I'm not sure," Remus answered.  "He hasn't spoken much since the whole incident.  Mostly just lays on his bed."

            "You should have told me, Moony.  You should have told me everything."

            "I'm well aware of that.  However, I also knew you would insist on coming to the school if you thought he was in danger."

"And you see how well that worked."

"You know, Padfoot, Kingsley can't keep the Ministry off your back if you keep getting spotted all over-."

His words were interrupted by a scream that permeated the walls and filled the castle.  Both men froze as the scream seemed to last forever.  When it finally died, both men looked at each other.

"That came from the third floor," Remus said, staring up in that direction.

"Harry."  Both men burst into a run as the scream began again, louder than before.

¤¤¤¤

            Harry only lifted the curse when the boy slumped to the ground unconscious, unimpressed that the boy hadn't lasted more than a few minutes of the curse.  He hesitated for a moment, wanting to kill the red-headed blood traitor, but restrained himself.  It was Weasley's wand that had killed the Mudblood.  He would be thrown into Azkaban as her murderer.  It was a much more painful way for his life to end.  Instead, Harry turned and walked out the unguarded room.  He hurried down the corridor and was to the stairs when he was nearly knocked to the ground by someone much larger than his fifteen year old body.  Black was holding him by his shoulders. 

            "Harry, are you all right?" he demanded.  

            Harry made no reply, but refrained from sneering at the man.  

            "We heard screaming," the werewolf told him, his eyes scanning the darkened corridor.  "Do you know where it came from?"

            An excellent opportunity to split the enemy, Harry merely looked toward his own room where the door stood still afar, trying to appear afraid rather than malicious.

            "Sirius, stay with Harry," the werewolf told the convict before sprinting down the corridor and disappearing into the shadows.

            "Harry, what happened?" the convict asked, dropping to his knees in front of him, holding his shoulders at arm's length.  Harry leaned forward and whispered into his ear.

            "You are a blood traitor."  

            Sirius looked at him with deep confusion, but then Harry's face changed.  He was staring at his godfather with deep contempt, his mouth twisted into a malevolent smile.

            "Harry?"  Horror replaced the confusion as Harry's wand was pressed against his chest.

            "_Avada Kedavra,_" Harry whispered.  A green light engulfed the convict's body as it slumped to the ground. 

            "Sirius!  You'd better get down here!" The werewolf's voice shot from down the hallway.  Harry glanced down the corridor.  He couldn't see him, but he was coming.

¤¤¤¤

Remus approached the room cautiously with his wand out.  Through the darkness of the corridor, he could no longer see Sirius or Harry.  The door before him was all that was important at the moment.  Sirius could protect Harry, but whoever was screaming in here had been in real pain.

            He reached out and pushed the door slowly with his left hand, keeping his wand ahead of him.  Slowly, the rest of the room came into view… and its contents.  Hermione Granger lay near the wall, a great pool of blood forming around her head.  Ron Weasley lay a few feet away.  Both appeared dead.

            "Sirius, you'd better get down here!" he yelled, stepping into the room.  He knelt beside Ron, the closer of the two, and pressed his fingers to the side of the boy's neck, locating a weak pulse.  A tremor ran through the boy's body, his muscles still reacting to the torture they had endured.

            The Cruciatus Curse.

            "Sirius?" he called again.  He stiffened, listening for Sirius's approaching footsteps, but heard nothing.  Even with a heightened sense of hearing, he heard nothing but the appallingly heavy silence.  He rose and strode to the door, fearing he had left behind two more victims for whomever had done this.  "Harry?" he called, hoping someone would answer him.  

            He was answered with laughter.  Remus ran from the room.  The hairs on his neck and arms stood on end.  All of his senses screamed out trap, but he couldn't leave Harry and Sirius out there alone.  The sight that greeted him was not one he had hoped to see.  Sirius was lying on the ground, absolutely still, at Harry's feet.  Remus was next to his friend in an instant.

            "What happened, Harry?" he asked, turning Sirius over to see his face.  His mouth hung open.  His eyes stared.  "Harry?"  He pressed two fingers to Sirius's throat, then closed his eyes, feeling the defeat of a fallen comrade and friend.  Padfoot was no more. 

            "In my experiences," Harry said softly, "half-breeds can withstand longer torture than wizards.  Especially werewolves.  They are used to great pain."  Remus raised his eyes to find Harry's wand aimed at his chest.  "Shall we see if that is true with you as well?"

            Before Lupin could even react, his wand was ripped from his grasp, his body shoved hard so he flew down the corridor in the direction of Harry's room and slammed into a wall.  He scrambled quickly to his feet.

            "You're not Harry."

            "You're half right.  The part of me that can die is Harry."  He leveled his wand.  "_Crucio_!"

            When the curse was lifted, Remus was lying on his back, panting hard.  He heard footsteps and Harry's face appeared above him.

            "I have always theorized that if a werewolf is subjected to this particular curse for long enough, he would transform without the assistance of the moon."  His face appeared almost giddy at the chance to test his theory.

            "What do you want?"

            "I want Dumbledore, and your screams will bring him to me.  _Crucio!_"

            Every nerve in Remus' body registered excruciating pain and sent it to his overloaded brain.  His bones burned.  His back arched away from the stone floor.  His fingers and toes curled painfully.  Eyes rolled back in his head.  Only after nearly a minute of this torture did the screams erupt from his throat, ricocheting off the walls and down the corridors, mocking his torment.  The pain was eternal.

            Even after the curse was broken off again, the pain remained, racing through his body like electricity on a wire.  It was some time before he was aware he was no longer the center of the monster's attention.

¤¤¤¤

            "Severus, Poppy would like you to stay in bed at least another day," Dumbledore told his Potions Master as the younger man swung his legs out from under the blankets.

            "As much as I enjoy Madame Pomfrey's constant over-concern for my health, I do not intend staying here any longer.  Where are my clothes?"

            "Don't be so stubborn, Severus," the Deputy Headmistress told him.  "You've only been awake for a few hours, and you hardly look like you can stand, let alone walk out of here."

            Glaring at the Transfiguration Mistress, Snape stood, though on shaky legs, to prove his point.  He noticed his clothing on a table near the foot of the bed and slowly reached for them, careful to keep any signs of weakness hidden, though his body felt quite heavy, as if he was dragging extra weight.

            "Are you going to step behind the screen, Minerva, so I can change?"

            "If I don't will it prevent you from being so hard-headed?"

            "Not likely," he answered, shrugging off his shirt in front of her.  She shook her head and walked around the screen, wishing to herself she had not seen the pale scars crisscrossing his thin body, gifts of his professions, both as a Potions Master and a spy.  Beyond the screen, Snape dressed slowly, stopping every few moments so his head would stop spinning.

            "You are not yet well, Severus," Dumbledore said as the younger man bent to pull on his shoes.

            "I can heal as well in my own chambers."  

            A scream pierced the air suddenly.  The three occupants of the room froze.  Dumbledore was already moving toward the door when the scream rang out again, lasting much longer than anyone could withstand.

            "Minerva, alert the staff.  Get the students to their Houses.  Send the staff to the third floor corridor."

            "Pomfrey, where's my wand?" Snape demanded as the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress raced from the room.

¤¤¤¤

            "All students must report to their Common Rooms immediately.   All staff report to the third floor corridor."

            The announcement reverberated through the school as students hustled toward their Houses, casting terrified looks toward the professors who rushed against their flow toward the third floor.  Everyone had heard the screams.  It sounded as if someone was being tortured.  And seeing the same apprehension on the faces of the staff was not comforting.  

            In the Gryffindor Common Room, Ginny Weasley stood on top of a table, peering through the crowds of students for Ron.  Fred and George had run into her in the hallway and ran with her back to the Common Room, but no one had seen Ron.

            "Maybe the Prefects were called on," Fred offered from where he stood below her, also trying to locate their brother.  "I don't see Hermione either."

            "No," Ginny said.  "Right there's Evan Grimser.  He's a Sixth year Prefect."

            "Oy, Grimser!" George shot out.  "You seen my brother?"

            "He's right next to you, Weasley."

            "Not that one.  The Prefect, Ron.  We can't find him or Hermione."

            "Is anyone else missing?"

            "That's your job!" 

            Grimser shot him an annoyed look and began counting students.  Impatient, Ginny stuck her fingers in her mouth and blew as hard as she could.  A loud shrill whistle silenced the room.

            "Has anyone seen Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger?" she asked.  The answer came as shaking heads.  "Is anyone else missing?"  Students looked around for their friends and roommates.  More answers to the negative.  Her legs felt like jelly, and the youngest Weasley would have fallen from the table had her brothers not caught her. 

¤¤¤¤

            When Snape reached the staircase to the third floor corridor, the entire staff had already gathered there.  They hadn't had to threaten the school medi-witch to get their wand back.  And there was no way he was investigating a scream like that unarmed.  He made his way to the front of the crowd where the other Heads of House were gathered, studying the wards that had inexplicably been placed around the entrance, shielding them from entering.

            "Can you remove it, Filius?" Minerva asked.

            "I can try," Flitwick answered, rolling up his sleeves.  He raised his wand.  It was then that Snape realized exactly what he was looking at, and it terrified the hell out of him.

            "No!" he yelled too late.  As soon as Flitwick brought his wand down, his tiny body was blasted across the room, taking several unfortunate bystanders with him.  They crashed against the wall and slid to the floor.  Several were dazed.  Flitwick's hands and face appeared burned.  Professor Vector knelt beside him.

            "What is it, Severus?" Minerva asked.

            "I recognize these shields," he answered grimly.  He turned his gaze to meet hers.  "They were created by the Dark Lord."

            "Voldemort?  Here?"  She gasped as he nodded.  "How do we remove them?"

            "We don't.  Only he can."  

            "Then how do we get through?"

            "_We_ can't.  Only those whom he allows can enter."  He touched his left arm casually, knowing she would understand without having to explain it aloud where others could hear.

            "You can't," she told him, lowering her voice.  "You're too weak to face him alone."

            "Is Albus already up there?"

            "Yes."

            "Then I won't be alone.  Potter is up there, and as I recall, Lupin and Black were both heading this way as well.  One of them, we heard screaming.  Whoever it is will need help."  He glanced back at the gathered staff, then returned his gaze to the Deputy Headmistress.  "As soon as the shield drops, get up there, but be careful."  Saying no more, he walked through the shield and disappeared from view.

¤¤¤¤

            "Release him, Tom," Dumbledore said calmly to the wizard masquerading in Harry Potter's body.  The boy's green eyes gazed up at him.

            "Dumbledore, how nice of you to join us.   How did you know it was me?"

            "I recognized the path of destruction in your wake."  He looked down at Sirius Black's body staring up at him, then to the body of Remus Lupin, still convulsing with pain, further down the corridor.  When his gaze returned to Tom Riddle, his eyes were cold, focused.  "I am surprised you came here, Tom.  Surely you know you're trapped, unless you simply leave Harry's body."

            "I'm rather enjoying myself here."  He raised his wand.

¤¤¤¤

            Snape made his way up the stairs as quietly as he could.  Voices drifted down to him.  He recognized Dumbledore's, but the voice he had expected to answer was not the one he heard.  Potter!  That's how he did it.  He was in Potter's body.

            He flattened himself against the wall and looked around the corner.  To the right, he could see Dumbledore facing him.  Potter was facing the Headmaster, his back to the stairs.  Snape aimed his wand at Potter's back, but Dumbledore caught his eye.

            _Leave him to me.  Help Remus._

            Snape was tempted to argue, but Dumbledore looked back to Potter.

            "You will not leave this school, Tom.  Not in Harry's body."

            "Then kill me."

            "Death is too good for you."

            Potter fired a curse at Dumbledore, which was easily deflected.  The duel was begun.  With the Dark Lord's attention consumed by his greatest foe, Snape sprinted down the corridor to where Lupin lay.  He covered Lupin's mouth with his hand and pointed his wand at him.

            "_Ennervate._"   Lupin's body jerked to consciousness, but his cry was muffled against Snape's hand.  He motioned for silence, removed his hand, and examined the other man.  His body was shaking, interrupted only by more violent tremors that began in his hands and made their way to his chest.  Other than that, he seemed to be whole.  "Can you walk?"

            Lupin nodded, and with Snape's help, got to his feet.  

            "Wait," he whispered urgently as Snape began to steer him toward the stairs.

            "I'll come back for Black," Snape hissed.

            "It's too late for Sirius," Lupin answered grimly.  "Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are in Harry's room."

            "Has he-?"  The look in Lupin's eyes answered his question before he had even formed it.  "And they're alive?"

            "Weasley is, at least, he was when I checked."

            Snape glanced back at the two wizards farther down the corridor.  Spells were flying back and forth, deflected into the walls, floor and ceiling.

            "All right, let's go."

            Though still weak himself, Snape supported Lupin's arm as they staggered toward the open door at the end of the corridor, drawn to it, though he could not imagine the ghastly sight which would meet him.  Before they were even within the room, the contents inside were clearly visible.

            Weasley lay in plain sight in the middle of the room, the muscles in his body still twitching miserably from his torture.  In two strides, Snape was next to him, his fingers pressed against the boy's skin, searching for a pulse.  It was weak, but he was alive.  

            Lupin was leaning over Granger, pulling her eyelids open with his fingers, looking for any kind of reaction.  He was kneeling in the pool of blood, which had already begun to congeal around her head, not seeming to notice as it soaked through his robes.  There was little hope on his face as he laid his head on her chest in a desperate attempt to catch any sign of a heartbeat.

            "Neither of us is talented enough in healing to do them any good at this point," he pronounced grimly.  "We must get them to the Hospital Wing."

            "The Dark Lord has erected a shield," Snape answered.  "Neither you, nor they can cross through it until he releases it."

            "That could be too late!"   His eyes lingered on Weasley as he said this.

            Snape nodded, breaking Lupin's anxious gaze.  Drawing his wand from his sleeve, he stood.

            "_Mobilus corpus_."  Both bodies rose slowly into the air.  Drops of blood fell from Granger's hair and wound, prompting Lupin to tear off a piece of his robes and tie it over the about her head.  Remaining close by her side, he nodded to Snape and they continued in complete silence 

¤¤¤¤

Further down the corridor, just past the staircase where the two men were taking the unconscious Gryffindors, a dance, of sorts, ensued between two very powerful wizards.  They waltzed, circling, one with a deceptively dismissive air, calmly countering spells and blocking curses, though his blue eyes never missed the slightest movement of the boy before him.  The other circled as a vulture over carrion, nowhere near as languid.  He appeared calm, though the timbre in his voice as he shot curses at his former headmaster betrayed the triumph he felt he had earned.  Green eyes flashed angry as each curse was turned away.  

The pair sparred with words, daring, jabbing, cutting where they wished, until the boy lowered his wand and smiled triumphantly at the man before him.

"Kill me now, Dumbledore.  Kill me while I am in this body. Now is your chance."

            "You are a coward, Tom, to hide in Harry's body."

            "A coward?  You are the coward.  Come!  Kill me now!  Or is the boy too precious to you?"

            "He is precious to me, as is the life of any so innocent."

            A great laugh burst from Harry's lungs, tight and malicious as it escaped his throat.

            "The Great Albus Dumbledore refuses to take a life, even if it means an end to his bane.  And to think, people actually believe I fear you!"

            Across the Headmaster's lips spread the smile of a teacher quietly musing over some nonsense sputtered by an erring child, in which the humor is seen only by that charming soul who would laugh within, but never without.

            "Oh Tom," he cajoled, "there is still much for you to fear."

            All humor drained from the boy's face.

            "I fear nothing," he ground out.

            "And you are an exquisite liar."  The boy's head jerked in a menacing glare for just a fraction of a second, but the headmaster caught it deftly, muttering under his breath, "_Leglimens._"  He eyes bore down on the younger man, who jerked once more, trying to pull away, but unable.

            "You are not powerful enough to hold me, Dumbledore."

            "No," the Headmaster agreed, as he delved through the thoughts cluttering this mind, "but you allowed yourself to be trapped in Harry's mind, and his, I am powerful enough to hold."

            "Stop it, old fool!"

            "Leave, Tom."

            "Never!"

            "That, then, is my answer as well."

¤¤¤¤

            Lupin and Snape stood entranced at the top of the staircase, watching with morbid fascination as the confrontation transpired.  The last exchange was lost on neither man.  This battlefield was the mind of a fifteen year old boy.

            Lupin wanted desperately to cry out for them to stop, to spare Harry his sanity, but knew that doing so would lead only to more bloodshed, more pain.  He could only remain frozen, watching as a furious Harry struggled to fight back.  Finally, the boy's eyes whipped open, blazing like twin green flames, as he cried out to his mother in a small voice.

"Is Harry reliving his worst memories?" Lupin asked shakily.  

            "No," Snape answered, well aware his own voice would tremble as well if he spoke above a whisper, though for different reasons.  He was in awe, watching his mentor, a true master, at his craft.  "He is reliving someone else's."  

            "Please!" Harry's voice cut across them.  "You can't send me back to the orphanage!  Let me stay here!  Please!" 

            "Why do you wish to stay, Tom?"  Dumbledore asked softly, though the strength in his voice revealed he knew the answer.  Harry's breathing quickened.  His eyes widened with abject terror.  Suddenly, his hands and arms were thrust before his face, as if shielding himself from a physical blow.  He whimpered, cried out for someone to help him, though his eyes remained locked on Dumbledore's.

            "Get out of my head!"  This voice was different.  It was smaller, more frightened.  Harry was fighting.

            "It's no longer yours!" came the answer in the same, though harder, voice.

            "Shall we continue, Tom?  I know this is not the worst."  The weariness in his voice could be heard only by Snape, who had grown so accustomed to trying to read the subtle headmaster, that this all but screamed out at him.

            The air was suddenly shattered by a piercing scream from the young man, whose entire body was now trembling.

            "Help me, Professor!"

            "Force him out, Harry."

            "I don't know how!"  The boy's voice was just a whisper.

            "You do, Harry.  You can do this.  Think of those you are trying to protect.  Your friends.  Your family.  All who love you."

            Harry seemed to be fighting an internal battle now, though Dumbledore had not yet yielded his support in the boy's mind.  As Snape watched, he tried to determine exactly what was happening in Potter's head, what images were playing for him, Dumbledore, and the Dark Lord.  What would finally force Him out?

            The Dark Lord's shield was weakening.  Already, Snape could hear the rest of the staff racing up the stairs toward them.  McGonagall was the first to appear, with several others behind her.  Her eyes widened at the sight of Dumbledore and Potter waging a mental battle in near silence, then turned her attentions toward her Prefects.  The two children were levitated once again and rushed down to the Hospital Wing, while McGonagall remained next to Snape and Lupin, waiting for the outcome- ready against the unthinkable.

            Harry's eyes finally opened wide, as if in shock, his body convulsed violently for several seconds before slumping and collapsing in a pile to the floor.  The headmaster closed his eyes, heavily fatigued, and swayed on his feet as if he too would find himself on the cold stones.  He stayed on his feet only because his Deputy was instantly by his side, steadying his arm.

            "Sit down, Albus," she entreated.

            "I'm fine Minerva.  I'm just tired."  He smiled, though it did not extend to his eyes, and patted the woman's hand reassuringly.  "How are Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley?"

            "On their way to Poppy."

            "What about Harry?" Remus asked.

            "He's alive," Snape answered, kneeling beside the boy and checking his vitals.

            "I will see to him," the Headmaster answered, closing his eyes again for a moment.  When he opened them again, his eyes were on the reposed body of Sirius Black.             "Minerva, you and Remus, I trust, will see after Sirius.  He deserves much more than this cold floor."  Snape cast the Headmaster one last questioning glance, but was turned away by an imperceptive motion of the older man's thin hand.   

            Lupin, with McGonagall's comforting hand on his shoulder, was carefully lowering his friend's eyelids, giving him the appearance of peace.  Watching this, Dumbledore's throat constricted, though he deceived all in his stoicism only by diverting his gaze back to the young boy at his feet.   He hadn't the strength to dwell on the death of a beloved, though strong-willed, Order member.  Not at the moment.  He would have to save his own grief for the safety of his private chambers.  There were others who needed his strength more than he did. 

            Harry Potter.

            The Boy Who Lived.

            The Boy Who Would Have to Live With So Much Pain.

            The Headmaster squeezed his eyes shut yet again.  This time, two tears ran down his face before disappearing into the winter forest of his beard.  The boy had lived through so much, much more than wizards four times his age.  This, the events of this night, would be the hardest for him to bear, for his memories would not be of the victim or the bystander, but of the tormentor and murderer of those he loved.

            Dumbledore knelt and scooped the boy into his arms, waving away Snape's proffered help, and carried him toward the stairs.  The small crowd of witches and wizards, the remaining staff, many of whom had themselves survived events which would destroy many, moved respectfully out of the way, not for the Headmaster, but for the Headmaster's burden. 

Note:   This marks the beginning of the end.  I estimate 2 more chapters, three at most.  I hope nobody feels I rushed this.  I wanted to catch you off guard, much as the event catches just about everyone in the story off guard.  Once again, me trying to make my audience feel the way the characters do.  Did it work??

If you read carefully, in many chapters, I practically told you what would be happening.  All those little "philosophy moments" were hinting toward the end.  Anybody remember "the fates shall not be denied"?  JKR, Goddess of this little world has ordained Sirius will not live.  Who am I to argue?  

BTW, I hope nobody was looking for a happy ending.  Not exactly my forte.


	17. Chapter 17

Death is a finality of life.  We cannot escape it.  We deal with it.  We move on.  What else can we do?  Cry to the gods above?  Make promises that are not in our power to keep?  No, we must grieve and hope that death is an escape for those who have left us, for how do we know what is beyond?  For all we know, it is comfortable and warm like a thick blanket on a cold winter morning.  Death is nothing for us to fear.  After all, there are worse things than dying.  For some of us, it's living.

            Severus Snape made his way slowly through the twisted corridors of Hogwarts, long after its population had retired to their beds.  It was his place to look after young Mr. Weasley, for who better to treat a torture victim than one who has been on both ends of a wand in that department?

            Normally, Snape would swear that an unconscious patient is the best to deal with, negating the need for any bedside manner, but in Weasley's case, the boy was only more annoying.  His siblings were constantly around his bed, especially, it seemed, when the Potions Master was trying to examine the young Gryffindor, overreacting to every small tremor that ran through the boy's body.

            Ginny Weasley was the worst.

            "Professor!  Professor, there's something wrong!"  Nothing more than his body reacting to the memory of the pain while he slept.  A calming potion was administered.  His eyes were checked for dilation.  His mouth to be sure he did not bit through his tongue.  And all the while, the youngest Weasley cried a few steps from where Snape worked.

            Luckily, Weasley should be waking soon.  Then, he would no longer be his problem.  He could go to Albus or Minerva with the psychological scars he would no doubt incur.  Nobody goes through something like this without psychological scars.

            Snape rounded the corner of the Infirmary, glancing toward the Madame Pomfrey's office, but knowing she was in bed.  This was the hour for ghosts and specters, not doctors who had been treating two deeply injured teenage boys with nightmares that would make a grown-wizard's blood curdle.

            His steps took him automatically to the second bed on the left, surrounded by white screens to keep curious students from disturbing the recuperating boy, though he had yet to be conscious for longer than a few minutes at a time over the last two days. 

            He was startled to find the bed empty, the sheets thrown back and laying haphazardly off the side of the bed.  Instinctively, Snape drew his wand, his eyes searching the shadowed areas around the bed for the boy.  Perhaps he'd awakened and curled on the floor to escape his nightmares?  It was certainly possible, but the boy could not be found, and he was too tall to be able to hide himself very well.  Snape stepped from behind the screen, knowing exactly where he would find the young ward.

            He crossed deeper into the Hospital Wing toward the last row of beds where more white screens had been erected to hide a sleeping patient.  That was where he found Weasley, his pajama clad form towering over Potter's bed.  He was looking down at his best friend, his face turned away from Snape, but the astute Potions Master needn't see his face to know what was going through the boy's head.  He only needed to see the boy's arm extended toward Potter's peacefully sleeping body, his hand trembling as it gripped his wand, pointed directly at Potter's head.

            Weasley wanted to kill Potter.

            Under normal circumstances, had Snape come across either Weasley or Potter with their wands pointed at each other, he would have ignored them, hoping they would hex each other into the next millennium, but these were no normal circumstances.  The events which had landed both of these boys in the hospital had been too horrific to ignore this current predicament.  And just because Weasley hadn't yet killed Potter, didn't mean he wouldn't.  He hadn't cursed him, evident by Potter's chest still rising and falling with his breaths, but he hadn't exactly lowered his wand either.  

            "What are you doing, Weasley?" he asked smoothly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the boy into murder.

            The red-headed boy did not turn, did not answer, made no movement that he had even heard besides clenching the muscles in his jaw.

            "Are you planning on killing him?" Snape asked, hoping to the gods that he was not putting ideas in the fool's head.  He hadn't been through this much to have Potter murdered in front of him like this.

            "He's a murderer."  Weasley's voice shook with emotion- both anger and disbelief.  He had not forgotten that Potter was his best friend.

            "Put down your wand, Mr. Weasley."

            "You didn't see the look on his face.  He was enjoying it.  He enjoyed torturing- us."  He gripped his wand even tighter, trying to steady his hand.  

"Mr. Weasley, your wand," Snape repeated, trying to stay calm, but feeling panic creep into him the tiniest bit.  

"He doesn't deserve to be here… there are… the innocent…"  He was breathing hard now, and Snape knew wasn't hearing everything the boy said.  The tall teenager was geared up, being played by his own emotions.  A very dangerous situation.  

"That isn't your decision to make.  I hate to break this to you, but sometimes there are- circumstances."

This caused the boy to turn.  His face was pale, though his cheeks flushed with anger.  His hazel eyes bore into his professor so deeply, Snape could see the conflict fighting within him.

"Circumstances?  It's because he has that fucking scar on his forehead!" the boy screamed.  "That's always his circumstance, but not this time-."

            "And if you kill him, does that make you better than him?"

            Weasley did not answer, but lowered his wand a fraction, though not all the way.  The situation was not yet over.  Snape moved slowly toward the boy, reaching out his hand and wrapping his fingers loosely around the wand.  Weasley tensed for a moment, jerking the wand, but Snape's grip tightened, preventing him from moving it.

            "Settle down, Weasley.  I'm not going to take it away from you.  I'm going to show you something."  Seeing the boy's tenseness, he added,  "You don't have to let go if you don't want to."

            Weasley's eyes met his again, as if daring him to try and take the wand.  Ignoring him, Snape brandished his own wand and motioned with it toward Weasley's.

            "_Prior incantato_!"

            A green whisp of smoke rose from the wand, dissipating in the still air of the Hospital Room.

            "It seems Potter was no the only one to cast the Killing Curse."

            "He had me under the Imperious-."

            "Always a circumstance," Snape cut across him, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

            "That's different!" Weasley screamed, his hands curling into fists.

            "Is it?"

            "There was no one else in the room with us to put him under the Imperious!  That was Harry!"

            "Correct.  However," he looked at Ron appraisingly, "What do you know of Potter's- side-affects- to the incident that gave him that scar?"

            "He has dreams about You-Know-Who," Ron said roughly.  "And he feels what He's feeling."

            "Correct again, but it is deeper than that- more than awareness.  It is a connection."

            "I don't understand."

            "Tell me, Weasley," Snape said, feeling irritated at this whole predicament the boy had created, "Would the Potter you know ever attack you or Granger?  Or Lupin or Black?"

            "No-," he answered, then stopped, cocking his head at his professor.  "He attacked Professor Lupin and Sirius?  Are they all right?"

            "Lupin is.  Black, however, is dead."

            "Dead?"  He staggered as if he had been struck.  "Sirius and Hermione."  The young Gryffindor's legs seemed to give out from under him and he slipped to his knees in a daze.  "Harry killed-.  He would never.  Not Sirius."  Those eyes caught Snape again, pleading, then answering.  "It was You-Know-Who, wasn't it?  You said there was a connection.  He was in Harry's head."

            "Amazing where simple logic can take you when you are not saddled with emotions like revenge," Snape answered silkily, though not as icily as he normally would have.  He continued watching the red head on the floor as he struggled with this new information.  That it weighed heavily on him was obvious, and Snape could practically see his mind realize what he had almost done.  Tears broke from Weasley's eyes and were sliding simultaneously down each cheek.

            Though he felt no affection for this boy, he saw in him what he had seen in many others, himself included, at these moments where there seemed no hope.  It was a struggle.  These, after all, were the times that the heart chooses between Light and Dark, not when we are at our strongest, but when we are at our weakest.   

            "Granger is not dead," Snape offered, his voice softer than even he had meant.  "It takes two things to kill.  The will and the power.  The Dark Lord gave you the will, but he could not give you the power."

            "She's alive?"

            "She is at St. Mungo's, but yes, she is alive."

            "But Sirius-?"

            "I'm sure you have noticed that Potter is no ordinary boy.  He was provided with the will.  He did not lack in the power."

            "Sirius is really dead."

            "Yes."

            Weasley looked up at the bed where his best friend still lay unconscious.

            "It was Harry's hand and Harry's wand that killed him," he muttered softly to himself.  Then, realizing that tears were still sliding down his face, he wiped angrily at them with his pajama sleeve.  "He'll never forgive himself for this," he said at last, looking up at Snape.  "Even though it wasn't him-."

            "It will be difficult," Snape answered, feeling uncomfortable with his role of comforting the young Gryffindor.  This was not his forte.  Up to this point, he had been able to rely on logic to make the boy understand, but now?  Dumbledore should be here.  The headmaster was better at this than he.  "Come, Weasley.  You are still weak from your own experience."

            Almost in a daze, Weasley stood slowly, laying his hand momentarily on Potter's shoulder, then walked back to his own bed.  He stumbled on nothing, prompting Snape to take his elbow to steady him.

            "Are you still feeling pain in your extremities?" Snape asked as the boy settled himself once more in the bed, relieved to turn the conversation back to his original purpose for being there.

            The boy shot him a perplexed look before answering.

            "Odd.  I didn't feel it before you asked."

            "It was numbed by your adrenaline.  Drink this," the Potions Master told him, taking a small vial from his robes.  "It will help you sleep as well."

            He drank the clear liquid he was given and sunk down in the bed, saying nothing more to his professor before drifting off to sleep.  Snape remained where he was, watching Weasley carefully.  He had finally shown signs of being mildly interesting.  Perhaps- perhaps he would be of use in the next few years.  Young.  Pureblood.  Good reason to hate Potter, at least to an outsider.  If those bothersome emotions could be checked, the boy might find himself in a double service as Snape had.

The smirk on his face faded quickly.  Weasley was, after all, just a boy of fifteen, and here he was planning a very dark future for him.  A future he was trying to help his own House avoid. No.  He was doing this to protect the students, not to expose more of them to His power.  Snape turned, absently rubbing at his left forearm, and stepped around the screens once more to exit the Hospital only to find Dumbledore himself standing near the door.  The headmaster was watching him sadly from his spot near the door.

            "How long have you been there?" Snape asked when he was near to him.

            "Long enough, Severus.  Long enough."  He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but only reached out a hand, clasping the younger man's shoulder.  "You are a good man, my boy.  I am proud of you."

            Snape did not answer, but inclined his head in a slight bow of thanks.  He, of course, would never tell the old man how much those words meant to him.

¤¤¤¤

            Ron lay motionless on his hospital bed, not feigning sleep, but trying very hard to go unnoticed as he listened to the hushed whispers from deeper in the room.  It was a mere two days since that night Snape had found him standing over Harry's bed, and though Snape had come to check on his progress and force vile potions down his throat several times, the two never said a word about their conversation that night.  There had been no need, as Harry had still not awoken, but that changed late last night.

            The Potions Master had been checking Ron's pulse as he asked questions about where he was feeling pain and what kind of pain.  ("Come Weasley, surely you can differentiate between different types of pain.  Is it searing?  Throbbing?  A dull ache?")  Ron had begun to protest for the umpteenth time that he did not need any help from him, when Snape's hand suddenly rose in the air, silencing him.  The professor's head cocked to the side, as if he were listening for something.  Then, without warning, his whole head swung to the side so he was looking at, or through, the screen to Ron's left.  Ron, too, strained to hear what the professor was listening for, and after several moments of deafening silence, he heard it.

            A sob.

            Harry was crying.

            "Take this," Snape said, his voice suddenly very low, as if he didn't want Harry to hear, and produced another potion for Ron to swallow.  Snape waited, decidedly impatient, until Ron had swallowed the contents, before moving from behind the screen.

            He listened to the measured footsteps that carried the hated potions professor across the room, an eternity passing in that slow trek, before hearing the man speak.

            "Potter?"  The one word was soft and very unSnape-like.  Ron strained to hear more, but unfortunately, the potion was swift and Ron was asleep before he heard anything more.

            But now, wide awake, Ron couldn't make out the words being whispered, nor who exactly was whispering, though he knew Dumbledore, McGonagall, Lupin, and Madame Pomfrey were all at the far end of the room.  He had seen each of them pass by his bed on their way to Harry.

            "I can't remember."

            Harry's voice!  That was most definitely Harry's voice.  An involuntary shudder passed through his body.  Ron looked toward the screen nearest his friend, as if he could see him through the white fabric, but heard no more from Harry. Instead, he heard the Headmaster's voice.

            "Minerva, Poppy, give us a few minutes."  The two women walked past the foot of Ron's bed, to which he promptly shut his eyes, hoping they would not stop to check on him.  After a few moments of silence, he heard Dumbledore speak again.

            "Harry, why don't you tell us what you can remember."  

¤¤¤¤

            Remus Lupin sat in an uncomfortable chair by Harry's bed, unsure of himself for the first time in a long time.  At the same time, he wanted to hug the boy and draw away from him, and this inner-conflict scared him.  He knew it wasn't Harry who had done all those things, who had tortured him and Ron, nearly killed Hermione, and had killed Sirius.  And yet- and yet, even in those moments of quiet solitude when he allowed his mind to wander, he still saw Harry's mouth twisted in an evil grin, his wand pointed at him.  And at times, he could still feel the pain of that curse.  True, he had felt it before, but it was a hundred times worse when this boy's face was smirking at him in that eerie fashion. 

             "Harry, why don't you tell us what you can remember."

            "How much?"

            "Do you remember how you came to Hogwarts?"

            Remus wasn't looking at the Headmaster or the student.  There was a string hanging from the sheet on Harry's bed, and he concentrated on it, hearing all the words that passed around him, but trying hard not to react to any of it.  Why hadn't he been dismissed with McGonagall and Pomfrey?

            "Snape brought me here.  I didn't know it was him at the time, but he took off his mask.  I was in a hospital of some kind, but I don't remember why."

            "You don't remember why you left your aunt and uncle's house?"

            There was a long moment of silence.  Remus could hear Harry fidgeting in the bed, saw the sheets move as the boy twisted them in his hands.  

            The string quivered, then stopped.

            "No, I remember getting in a fight with Dudley, and Uncle Vernon dragging me up to my room.  He screamed at me, knocked me around.  When I tried to leave- I must have fallen."

            "And then?"

            "I woke up in a field.  I have no idea how I got there, but I did."  A pause.  "Do we have to talk about this?"  His voice was strained, tight.

            "No, Harry.  No, we don't, and I apologize for bringing it up," the Headmaster answered sympathetically.  "I simply wanted to see what you remembered."

            "Oh."  

            The string quivered again, jerked to the side by another pull on the sheet.

            "I remember everything, sir," Harry said.  "Everything from before, and being here and not recognizing anyone or anything.  It was all a confusion, but I remember Ron and Hermione coming to my room, and meeting with Fred and George and Ginny on the Quidditch pitch.  I was taking Occlumency lessons with Sn- Professor Snape."

            More fidgeting.  The string swung from side to side before finding its equilibrium.  Was he remembering their last lesson together?

            "What is the last thing you remember?" the headmaster prodded gently.

            Remus' eyes caught a glimpse of Harry's hand moving on the edge of his sight, and his eyes involuntarily followed it as Harry balled his trembling fingers into a fist.  

            "Hermione came up to my room to talk to me.  I was- well- feeling trapped, and she made me feel better.  I kissed her."  Remus looked up quickly at Harry's blushing face, but the boy was staring fixedly at his hands.  "I don't even know why.  I think of her as my sister, but there was this voice telling me that I wanted to, and- and then Ron was standing right there.  He saw it, and he hit me.  I don't remember much after that."  Now Harry did glance up and saw the expression of horror on Remus' face he had tried so hard to disguise.  Fortunately, Harry misread it as anger at Ron.  "It wasn't Ron's fault," he added quickly.  "They're dating, you know.  Not that they ever told me, but I picked up on it when I was around them.  I probably would have done-."

            "It's all right, Harry," Dumbledore told him, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder.  Remus detected a small amount of confusion in the man's eyes, but did not voice it.  "What was the next thing you remember?"

            "Waking up here."  Harry sat absolutely still.

            Dumbledore nodded, accepting the answer.

            "You should know then that that very evening, Lord Voldemort himself attacked, well, you and your friends.  Mr. Weasley," he motioned toward the screen nearest Ron's bed, "is resting just a few beds from here.  Miss Granger suffered more serious injuries and is now at St. Mungo's, recuperating." 

            "They're alive," Harry breathed, as if convincing himself of the truth.

            "They are, as is Remus, here, who was attacked while trying to help them."  Those twinkling blue eyes closed for a long moment, and when they opened again, they were dull and clouded.  "Sirius, however, did not survive.  I'm sorry, Harry."

            However Remus had expected Harry to react, it wasn't like this.  He himself had spent two days in the room Dumbledore had provided for him at the school, crying and ranting against the gods before settling into the melancholy air which had been his for what felt like a lifetime now.  He had, after all, lost his best friend, his brother, leaving him as the last Marauder of those carefree days long past.  But Harry had lost his godfather, the man who was his surrogate father.  

Perhaps the boy was in shock?  

No.  His breathing was shallow as he stared down at his hands.  His face was placid, emotionless.  When his eyes closed, hiding those startling green orbs from view, Remus expected to see tears escape from underneath his eyelashes, but none fell.

When his eyes opened again, Remus was startled to see that Harry was staring at him, he eyes wide and terrified.

"I'm sorry, Lupin," he said, his voice wavering.

"For what, Harry?"

"That you were hurt.  And- and that Sirius-."  Now the tears did begin to stream down his face.  "And Ron, and Hermione, and-."

"Harry, it wasn't your fault," Remus answered, laying a comforting hand on his and reminding himself of the validity of his own words.  It wasn't Harry's fault.  It wasn't Harry.  He knew that.  Deep down, he knew that.

"People keep getting hurt because of me," Harry continued.  "First Cedric, then you and Ron and Hermione.  And now-."  He didn't seem able to finish the sentence.

"Harry, it wasn't you," Remus offered to calm him down.  "Voldemort was after the Headmaster.  Everyone else was just in his way."  

Except for you, dear boy.  You were his weapon.  

Remus looked up to Dumbledore for help, but the headmaster was watching Harry, as if quietly observing his reaction to this news, something Remus found very curious.  Those blue eyes suddenly slid down to meet his.

"Remus, would you allow me a few minutes with Harry?"

Nodding, Remus stood, squeezed Harry's hand reassuringly, and slid around the screen.  He paused, then walked slowly toward the door, only glancing at Ron Weasley's bed, and was surprised to see the boy was awake.  The former Defense professor started when Ron quietly motioned him over.  

"Is something wrong, Ron?  Should I summon Madame Pomfrey?" 

"Pro- uh, Mr. Lupin," Ron whispered, "He's not going to tell Harry, is he?  I mean, about _how_ You-Know-Who came to Hogwarts?"

"Unlikely," Remus answered.  "If Harry can't remember it himself, there's nothing to gain by telling him."  He noted the look of relief on the boy's face.  "Let me guess.  You're wondering how you can face him?"

"Yeah, actually."  His eyes strayed toward the screen separating them.  "When I first woke up, I was, well, angry doesn't seem strong enough.  I wanted to hurt Harry.  Maybe even kill him.  It disgusted me that they even had him here."  He looked back up at Remus.  "I honestly don't know what I would have done had Snape not shown up and stopped me.  He explained everything that happened."  

Remus tried hard to control the emotions he had felt on hearing this, and couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore had been informed.  It didn't really surprise him that Severus had helped Ron, despite his strong dislike for anything Gryffindor and especially Harry and his friends, but he wasn't completely heartless, as much as that probably irked him.

"I felt better after that," Ron continued.  "I really thought I would be fine, until he woke up last night.  Now, I can't help wonder how I can face him.  I don't know how I can-."  He seemed to be struggling to put into words the very feelings Remus had been dealing with as he himself sat next to Harry.

"Disguise the horror you feel at your memories of what you saw and experienced him do," the former professor finished.  Ron looked at him, surprised, then nodded.  "Believe me, Ron, I felt the same way.  And as much as it shames me to admit this, I felt the smallest amount of fear when I first heard his voice this morning, and I was terribly uncomfortable.  The odd thing is, do you know what I saw when I finally brought myself to look him in the eye?"

"What?"

"Harry," he answered, squeezing the boy's shoulder.  "Just Harry.  He's the same boy I met two years ago, though perhaps a little more haunted, but he is not that person I found myself facing in the third floor corridor.  The Harry I saw in his eyes would never willingly hurt another person and would do everything he could to protect those he cares about.  And that made it easier for me.  It may not take away the nightmares; those will only fade with time, but it gives me something more to fight for."

"Harry."

"No, not just Harry.  You and Hermione, too.  I saw in Harry, and what I see in you now, is the same thing I saw in both James and Sirius when I was young.  It's that bond deeper than friendship, deeper than blood.  I don't want that to be sacrificed to a war you never started, as ours was."  Remus felt the familiar knot in his throat tighten.  "Remember that, Ron."  He smiled weakly and turned to go.

"Professor?"  He turned.  "Thank you."

 Remus nodded.

"Thank you, Ron."   His steps carried him out of the Hospital Wing, but his mind paid no attention.  Somehow, calming Ron had done something for him, allowed him to order his thoughts and evaluate what he had been feeling for the last few days.  More than a few times he had questioned what the point of this whole war was, and trying to calm the poor boy in the Hospital Wing had reminded him of why he was fighting.  He was fighting, not because it was the right thing to do, but because he had to, for James and Lily and Sirius, and for Harry and his friends, and for himself and what he'd lost.

¤¤¤¤

The morning after he spoke with Mr. Lupin, Ron was released from the Hospital Wing to return to his House.  He didn't speak to Harry before he left.  Despite Lupin's own reassurances, he felt he wasn't ready yet.  Instead, after a long conversation with Dumbledore and McGonagall about what had happened, he went straight to the Gryffindor Common Room where he found his brothers and sister waiting impatiently.  Ginny threw her arms around him instantly, telling him in more colorful adjectives than he thought she even knew to never scare her like that again.  

Fred and George embraced him in turn, then, in the most serious tones Ron had ever heard them use, explained everything that had happened, so far as they knew: returning from Quidditch practice to hear screams echoing through the castle, the announcement for all students to report to their Houses while the staff ran off in the opposite direction, and the long wait for news.  As soon as they realized he was not in the Common Room, they had known that Ron, Hermione, and Harry were somehow involved in whatever was happening in the third floor corridor.  The rest of the House knew only of Ron and Hermione, and nearly everyone had sat in the Common Room together, in near silence, waiting to hear what had happened to their fifth year prefects.  Finally, just after midnight, Professor McGonagall had entered, knowing instinctively that her students would still be up, to make the announcement.

An intruder had attacked three students, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter, who had been in a private room in the castle to recover from injuries sustained over the summer.  Ron and Harry were in the Hospital Wing.  Hermione had been taken to St. Mungo's with more serious injuries.  The intruder had fled.  It was requested that students allow Ron and Harry to recover without interruption; so only family would be allowed to visit.

That is, until the Weasleys' constant presence began to encroach on Madame Pomfrey and Professor Snape's nerves.  Then, they, too, were banned.  

Knowing only this, the siblings were hungry for information, but Ron wouldn't share any, only telling them that what they had been told was the truth.

Mostly.

"Ron," George asked quietly.  "How's Hermione?"

"I don't know.  All anyone will tell me is that she's alive."

"What happened to her?"

Unable to answer, Ron buried his face in his arms.

Classes didn't go much differently.  All the Houses had received the same information from their Heads.  Everyone wanted to know what had happened up in the third floor corridor, what had happened to Harry, what had happened to Hermione.  Ron didn't answer any questions.  Whenever another was asked, he felt like his throat was closing up on him.

_Who was screaming?_

_I heard Granger was dying!_

_They were after Potter, weren't they?_

_Were you cursed?_

_Who was the intruder?_

_Did you see who it was?_

_Was it Sirius Black?_

_What happened?_

_What happened?  _

The room was spinning.  Ron squeezed his eyes shut, willing the dungeon to tilt back to normal as he squeezed the edge of his desk, trying to hold on.  To his right, he could hear Malfoy talking, Slytherin laughter filled the room.  Ron's chest was feeling tight.  Why couldn't he breath?  Why were the walls pressing in on him?

A hand touched his shoulder, and he instinctively jerked from it.

"Ron, mate, are you okay?"

A trembling white hand reached up and tore furiously at the knot in his tie.  Why was it so tight?  It was choking him!  He had to get out.  The room was too small!

The room tilted again as he tried to stand.

"Ron!"

Screams.

"Silence!"

The room was quiet, but for the snickers across the room, quickly silenced by a glare from the professor.  Strong hands pulled him to his feet against his will.  The muscles in his legs were gelatin.

"Finnegan, summon your Head of House.  And if I hear even a sneeze from this room, you will regret the day you took your first _breath_!"

Silence reigned loudly in Ron's ears as he was half led, half carried across the floor, still fighting to catch his breath.  His body was dropped in a chair.  He heard a door shut from a distance as he tore at the threatening clothes.  He ripped away his robes and sweater, clawed at his tie and collar as cabinets were opened and closed nearby.    Suddenly, his face was tilted up and a glass pressed to his lips.

"Drink this, Weasley."  Ron obeyed the voice that had bid him drink numerous potions over the last few days.  The liquid was cold and tasteless.  The glass was taken away.  "Cross your arms across your knees and lay your head on them."  Ron did as he was told, squeezing his eyes shut.  He was beginning to feel nauseous, and hoped he wouldn't be sick.  

The door opened and closed as the professor slipped out.

The knot Ron's throat tightened. He tried to take a breath, but instead, sobbed.  In moments, tears were streaming down his face, though he wasn't exactly sure why.  Unable to stop crying, his body shuddered.  He miserably pulled his arms closer, wrapping them around his waist, leaving his forehead to lay on his own bony knees.  The knees of his pants were soon damp with his tears.

He didn't even hear the door open.  A hand held the back of his neck, pulling him to sit up.  Another glass was pressed to his lips.

"Drink some more.  It will help."

Ron did as he was told.  It did help.  He began to feel a little calmer, though worn out and still a little nauseous.  He chanced a glance up at his Potions professor and found him to be watching him as well, leaning against his desk with his arms folded across his chest.  He looked- concerned.  No, not concerned.  Clinical, as if he had just viewed his own theories proven.

"What did you give me?" Ron croaked.

"Water."  His hands moved down to lean on the desk as well.  "Do you know what happened?"

Ron shook his head.

"You were panicking.  You should not have returned to classes yet."

Ron answered by way of closing his eyes, and returned his head to his knees.  The nausea had not yet passed, and the last thing he wanted was to get sick all over Snape's office.  All he wanted was to lie down.  His head was swimming.  His body felt very heavy.  The sensation of falling from a great height filled his mind, and his head jerked suddenly up.

A growl emanated from the professor's throat.  Then, the tall man moved closer to where Ron sat drifting to sleep.  The wooden chair suddenly felt softer, and the professor's hands were pushing his shoulders down so he was lying down on the transfigured cot.  Ron was asleep again before his head touched the pillow.

¤¤¤¤

            Minerva McGonagall rushed into the dungeon, her eyes instantly seeking and finding the Potions Master seated behind his desk, a quill clutched in one hand, and an essay in the other.

            "Severus, what happened?  I couldn't make out anything Finnegan-."  She suddenly realized the classroom was empty.  "What happened to your class?"

            "I sent them back to their Common Rooms."

            "Why?"

            "Because if they'd stayed in here another minute, I probably would have cursed one or all of them," he growled, setting down the quill and leaning back in his chair.

            "What happened?"

            "Weasley had a panic attack in class."  He folded his hands in his lap.  "It was too soon for him to return to classes, much less to be attacked with questions from every student in this school within hours of being released."

            "It was his choice to return."

            "It was a poor choice."  The professor rose from his seat in one graceful movement.  "Please take him back to his dormitory.  Tell him not to return until he is ready."

            "Back to the dormitory?  He's not there now?"  

            "No, he's sleeping in my office."  He turned and looked at her, saw the mirth in her face.  "He's as tall as I am.  Did you expect me to carry him through the corridors to his room?"

            McGonagall tried not to smile as she followed Snape through the narrow door toward the front of his classroom, and as she entered the room, had to cover her mouth with her hand to hide the smile that pressed itself onto her lips.  Ron Weasley lay placidly on a small cot, sound asleep, completely unaware that he lay beneath a shelf of jars filled with pickled newt eyes, spider legs, toad livers, and many other substances that would make skin crawl, in the office of his most loathed professor.  On a nearby chair, McGonagall found his robe, sweater, and tie, neatly folded and stacked.

            "A house elf," Snape answered the unspoken question in her eyes.

            She smiled.

            "Don't look at me like that, Minerva," he told her, leaning over the young man on the cot and gently shaking his shoulder.  "Wake up, Weasley."

            "Hmh?"

            "Professor McGonagall is here to take you to your dormitory.  Get up."

            The boy's eyes opened slowly, and he unsteadily tried to stand, only to have his elbow grasped by Snape before he could fall back onto the cot again.  

            "Careful."

            Had he been fully awake, the young Gryffindor probably would have fainted to hear Snape's voice so calm.  Instead, he allowed the professor to lead him a few steps until his Head of House could take his arm.  

            "Thank you, Severus," she told him gratefully, "for taking such excellent care of my student." 

He nodded in answer, and when the door shut behind the Gryffindor teacher and student, Snape returned the cot to its previous state and sat at his desk to finish his work.

¤¤¤¤

            For all the questions the Gryffindor House, and the student body at large, had for Ron Weasley when he returned, they had even more for Harry Potter, but much to their disappointment, they received even fewer answers.  The boy rarely spoke, and when he did, it was emotionless, leaving all around him wondering what exactly he had been through.  Interaction with his housemates was minimal, and nearly everyone noticed that none of that interaction was with his best friend, Ron Weasley.  In fact, neither seemed eager to speak with the other.

            All this was noticed and filed away in the minds of the fellow students, though what it could mean, nobody knew.  They weren't unfriendly, denoting a fight or argument, but just… distant.  The behavior of these two normally outgoing boys was unnerving to say the least.

            _They're just worried about Granger.  They'll be okay when she gets back._

            When Hermione Granger returned to the school late in the evening in early November, she found the Common Room quiet.  Most students were studying or already in bed.  One student, however, rose to his feet as soon as the portrait opened to admit her, and as their eyes met from across the room, she felt a lump in her throat as a tall red head silently crossed the room and folded her in his arms.

             Even as she closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest, the memories came storming back to her: Ron staring down at her with cold eyes, those evil words on the tip of his tongue.  And the pain.  She shuddered at the memory, causing Ron to tighten his embrace, as if to protect her from the images in her head.

            "I'm sorry, Hermione.  I'm so sorry."

*  *  *

One more chapter to go.  Don't worry.  Next one we will see more into Harry's head.  And, a funeral for a fallen friend (Yes, he's really dead).

I know Lupin's conversation with Ron in this chapter seems out of place (light in a sea of darkness), but I didn't think he would be quite as pessimistic and depressing as everyone else.  After all, he is a thinker.  Besides, that section just kind of rolled off my fingertips.

And as for the Snape/Ron quasi-bond thing, well, it's not something we see often here, and I figure after everything the boy has been through, Snape may begin to see something there, like potential.  Yes, that is a hint that Ron would make an excellent spy.  I've read some good one's here where he is a Death Eater spy.  This is my nod.  

And kudos to those of you who picked up the subtle hints that Hermione was not dead.  Why _would _they take her to the Hospital Wing if she was dead?

I'm off to write the last chapter.  Thanks for sticking around.

Toodles!


	18. Chapter 18

            At some point in all of our lives, we must question ourselves, whether it is our own decisions, our fates, our luck, or even the need for our own existence.  Most of us, at one point or another, when looking in the mirror, hate what we see.  It doesn't matter if we see what's on the inside or the outside.  It doesn't matter if we really understand what it is we're seeing.  We simply wake up, glance in the mirror while washing our face or brushing our teeth, and there it is: us.  Him.  Her.  You.  Me.

            Perhaps it's just a passing feeling, that groan that you really shouldn't have gotten up that morning, or nothing in your closet looks quite right on you.  Perhaps it's a short term day-to-day thing, like that awkward week where you're growing your hair out and it doesn't want to do a damn thing.

            For some of us, it's deeper than that.  It's self-loathing that comes from those deep, dark places everyone has, but nobody likes to talk about.  Not quite depression, but not exactly living it up in the Big Happy.  When this happens, there's no physical reaction that anyone else can really see, unless they're looking closely.  It's a pause, a searching glance, an inward sigh.  

            Yup, still alive.

            The Fates really have a sense of humor, and we are center stage.

            Harry Potter sat quite alone in a quiet corner of the Gryffindor Common Room, apart from the noise and hustle of those around him.  He was no longer a participant, no longer even scenery.  An audience, perhaps, though not an active member as he leaned over one of his textbooks, open to the same page for almost an hour.  

            Harry's eyes weren't reading the book or writing an essay.  They were watching the room, trying hard not to be noticed.  Not really spying.  Just trying to remind himself why he was still here.

            It wasn't working though.

            Fellow students were skirting around him, and though he didn't really want to be bothered, he didn't exactly want to be treated like a leper.  Perhaps he should walk though the corridors crying out 'Unclean!  Unclean!'

            The worst part about sitting where he was at that particular time was that he could see Ron and Hermione across the room, sitting on the couch.  The worst part was seeing them sitting so far apart from each other while he was sitting here in the room.  The worst part was knowing that they would still be sitting that far apart, even if he weren't in the room.

            The worst part?  Knowing it was his fault.  His doing.  

            From where Harry was sitting, he could see both of them with their necks craned down toward their books.  Once in a while, one would sneak a glance at the other in that longing kind of way, then look quickly back down at their book.  Perhaps every few glances, they both look up at the same time.  At this point, their reactions differ.  Hermione's eyes kind of flash in a panicked-tortured soul kind of way, as if she sees in Ron's eyes, for that split second, the crazed maniac he had been forced to become over two weeks ago, before it is cleared by a forced smile.

            Ron, Ron's the one that's really heart wrenching, because there's hope in his eyes.  After everything he'd seen, everything he'd been through, there's still that pure, undying hope, as clear as anything else in the world.  And for just that split-second, even though that look isn't toward him and isn't meant to give him any kind of solace, even Harry feels like everything might be alright again,.  

But it never stays.  It always clouds as reality sets in.

The hope is gone.

Nothing is ever going to be the same again.

A couple of students came though the portrait, and Harry, unable to bear being in this room any longer, slipped out unnoticed.  Though he had no goal in mind, he knew exactly where his feet were taking him.  He burst through the doors of the school into the chilly November evening and gulped in the air as if he'd been drowning all this while.  He gripped the wall, pressing his forehead against the cold stones, trying to clear his mind, calm himself.

A glance at the sky trapped him.

The moon, full and golden orange, clung low to the horizon, its face peeking over the trees like some strange deity who wanted to check up on its supplicants.  A werewolves' moon.

Remus' moon.

Remus hadn't spoken to him for over a week ago.  Harry couldn't really blame him for that, just like he couldn't blame Ron and Hermione for becoming very tense when they were around him, but it all hurt just the same.  Not that they were doing it on purpose.  Harry got the distinct feeling they were trying not to do it.  That's what got to him: knowing that it wasn't a mental choice, but a gut reaction.  Instinct.

Over a week.  Since Sirius's funeral, actually.  It had been surreal standing there in the Hogsmeade cemetery with the small gathering of mourners, most of whom were strangers to Harry.  Harry stood between McGonagall and, surprisingly, Snape, who seemed as always coldly distant.  Harry glanced around at those gathered.  A bald black man, who stood with Mad-Eye Moody and a heart-faced girl with long hair, who had been introduced as Tonks, Sirius' cousin.  Mr. and Mrs. Weasley stood with Charlie, Fred, George, and Ron a few feet away, and though the others offered Harry weak smiles, Ron wouldn't even meet his eyes.  Remus was there too, looking as if he would fall over at any moment.  McGonagall held his hand in both of hers, patting it reassuringly.

Even before the funeral actually began, Harry knew he didn't want to be there.  Not out of any disrespect or lack of feeling.  On the contrary, it was because of all the feelings swelling up within him that made him want to flee.  He had loved Sirius.  He was like a father to him, or would have been if given the chance.  But more than that, it was the feeling that everyone was looking at him, that they all _knew_ it was his fault.  They could see the guilt as if it were painted on him.

_He_ was to blame for the death of yet another member of the Order.  First his parents, and now Sirius.

Dumbledore began to speak, but Harry heard nothing of what was said.  His hands were shaking as he looked down into the deep hole where his godfather would soon be placed.  A deep, black hole where he would be out of reach forever.

Sirius was dead.  His parents were dead.  The Dursleys were dead.  So much blood was on his hands. 

A hand clamped onto his shoulder, and though Snape was the only one standing near enough to steady, it didn't register who it was.  Even as Harry glanced up, Snape didn't look down at him, but merely continued to look forward, though his eyes didn't even seem to focus on anything.

The soft lilt of Dumbledore's words continued to swirl in the air, but Harry's ears began to buzz.  He was cold, but not on the outside.  His insides were cold, as if he would never be warm again.

A shiny black casket was brought forth.

The buzzing became worse and dots appeared before his eyes.  As he raised a trembling hand to his face, his knees gave way, and he was kept standing only by that hand on his shoulder that pulled him against a warm black cloak and began to walk him away from the graveside.  After only a few steps, Harry felt his body slipping as he began to slump toward the ground, relying almost totally on the black cloak to bring him to a bench some ways from the gather.

"Sit down, Potter," Snape's voice told him.

Harry sat and a vial was pressed into his hands.

"Drink that.  It'll help."  

Harry drank it down and felt warmth spread through his body.  He remained slumped over for a few moments, allowing the dizziness to pass before looking up at his Potions Master.

"Why are you here?" he asked, passing the empty vial back with unsteady hands.

"If I am not mistaken, you were going to pass out."

"No, I mean, why are you here," he reiterated with a vague gesture toward the gathering.  "You hated Sirius."

Snape raised an eyebrow toward him, his eyes darkening as if he were going to make a sarcastic remark, then bit it back at the last moment.

"To pay my respects."  He looked back toward the funeral.  "I don't like Black, but we were on the same side, fighting for the same cause."

Harry dropped his head into his hands.  The cause.  Him.  That's what Snape meant.  They're all trying to keep him alive, and he keeps causing their deaths.

"It's not about you, Potter," Snape said, as if he could read Harry's mind.  "Believe it or not, this war is not about you.  It was started before you were even born."

Harry pressed his fingers against his eyes to stop the tears threatening.  That hand appeared on his shoulder again.

"Go away," he hissed, but instead of listening, Snape removed his hand and sat himself down on the bench, leaving a comfortable distance between them.

"After you were kind enough to give me an excuse to leave before I could be reminded of my own mortality?  I think not."

"Fine!" he answered, rubbing furiously at his eyes with his sleeve.  "Fine!  I'll go back.  You stay here."  He rose to his feet, but before he could take two steps, his legs were rubbery again, and Snape caught him again just before he sunk to his knees.

Harry couldn't control the tears anymore.  They streamed down his face, and he was trembling uncontrollably again.  It just wasn't fair!  How could Sirius be gone and him stuck here with Snape?  But he knew why.  He knew.  He did it.  He caused this.

"I'm so sorry, Sirius!  I'm so sorry," he sobbed, rocking back and forth on his knees.  "I tried to stop him.  I tried, but he was too strong.  I'm so sorry.  I'm so sorry!"  Harry continued crying, unaware of the arm across his shoulders or of Snape kneeling beside him until the trembling had weakened him and the tears had dried, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down in the cold grass and die himself.  Only then did Snape pull him to his feet, as the service was ending, and mourners were beginning to disperse.

"Come, Potter.  I'll take you back to the school."

They walked, rather than taking the carriage that was awaiting them, and by the time Snape had helped Harry back to Gryffindor Tower, he was already almost asleep on his feet.  

Harry wiped his eyes again, and began walking away from the school, toward the lake.  He was feeling closed in just from the nearness of the walls.  He needed air.  He needed- he needed to get away.

Snape had been almost human to him since then.  He was one of the few people who treated him like he was neither a monster in disguise nor a crystal vase that would break at a word, although after tonight, Harry wasn't sure that would last.

  The only other person who treated him that way was Dumbledore, but Harry didn't want to face him.  Not after what happened in the corridor.

Harry reached the pier where he had seen Hermione and the Weasleys on that day that seemed so long ago.  He remembered wanting to reach out to them, to be there with them, even though he didn't know who they were.  He just wanted to be down there on that pier with them.

And now he was here on this pier, and he was completely alone.

He sat down, dangling his feet just over the water below and leaned his head against the banister.

The moon was rising higher in the sky and the air was getting colder.  Harry shivered and wrapped his arms around himself.  He was only wearing his robes with his school clothes underneath, but he didn't want to go get anything warmer.  He didn't want to face anyone again, didn't want to see those faces.

He saw them too many times when he closed his eyes.  He could see their faces twisted in agony, hear their screams echoing.  It was too much.  Everything.  Waking up in the morning was too much.  The nightmares at night were too much.  Walking through the hallways with the other students.  Sitting in his dorm alone.  Everything was just more than he could handle.

Harry had spent four months trying to remember everything, his life, his friends, his past… and now, when he had all of this jammed back in his brain, his only wish, as he slumped over the water, staring at his shadow reflecting back at him, was to forget it all.

₪₪₪₪

"Are you sure, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, as he stared out the tower window overlooking the lake.  A shape was sitting on the pier, slumped against the rail, and the old headmaster had a very good idea who it was.

"Positive," came the answer.  Dumbledore turned back toward his office, facing the heads of Slytherin and Gryffindor.  Minerva sat primly in a cushy chair, an untouched cup of tea in her hands as she listened to the Potions Master.  Severus sat uncharacteristically forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, hands hanging.  "I've suspected since Black's funeral.  I believe Potter forgot I was there for a few moments while he broke down.  He kept saying that he had tried to stop him over and over."

"Voldemort?"

"Yes," Severus answered.  "My suspicions were confirmed during his Occlumency lesson earlier this evening."

"How much does he remember?" Minerva asked softly.

"Everything."  Snape held her eyes, confirming in this his answer.  "I saw nearly the entire episode before he was able to force me out."

Minerva looked at him curiously.

"That long?  I thought he was improving."

"He was.  Either the memory threw him off or he wanted me to see it," Snape answered grimly.

"It is a cry for help," Dumbledore said at last, staring again at the lonely figure near the lake.  "By revealing these memories to Severus, he is asking for help without actually having to ask."

"But why you?  No offense, Severus, but you're not exactly known for your compassion and understanding."

"Because he knows it would annoy me," he returned, though there was no bitterness or sarcasm in his voice.

"Minerva," Dumbledore said without turning again from the window.  "It's cold out.  Go bring Harry in."  When the Deputy Headmistress had left the room, Albus turned to face his Potions Master.  "How serious is it, Severus?"

"It rivals anything I have in my own memories.  Because of his relationship with those people involved, it's even worse."  He paused and only continued when the Headmaster nodded to him.  "But the emotion I get from his is the worst of it.  It's- _desperate_ I'm not sure is strong enough."

Dumbledore nodded.

"Help him, Severus."  Snape rose from his seat and turned toward the door, only to be stayed by a hand on his shoulder.  "He chose to reveal this to you, Severus.  Perhaps it was an accident, though I suspect he thinks you can help him more than any other.  You've been there.  He feels dark, evil, a place you yourself have been.  Help him in any way you can."

Snape nodded, giving no argument, and swept from the room.  Dumbledore returned to his perch by the window and watched as Minerva's shadow crossed the lawn to the lake, and finally pulled the boy to his feet, leading him back to the warmth of the school.

"Thank you, Harry," the Headmaster whispered, closing his eyes.  "Thank you for finally asking for help."

FIN

*  *  *

Thank you, those of you who have been so patient while I finished this.  I'm so sorry it took so long.  Not more than a few days after the last chapter was posted, my best friend, my sister in all but blood, was tragically killed in a car accident.  Because that incident paralleled what I was having to deal with in this chapter, the sudden loss of a loved one, I found it impossible to write until tonight when it all spilled out within a few hours.  It was simply too much to deal with.  If this chapter seems very dark or depressed in Harry's voice, it is because I am dealing with a few of my own issues through his voice, though I tried to incorporate some of the dark humor I've used throughout.  I realize my writing style has changed with this final installment, but that was unavoidable.

I have not decided whether or not I will actually write a second part to this.  I wanted to leave this up in the air for a couple of reasons.

1.  I'm not great with happy endings.  They're just not my style.

2.  Loose ends.  There are always loose ends in real life, and I didn't want to tie this up like a very special sitcom episode where everything is fixed by the end of the episode. 

3.  If I decide to come back to this, I still can.

Thank you, thank you, thank you everyone who read this, whether or not you left comments for me.

This chapter is dedicated to Amelia- my best friend, my sister, my partner in crime.

Danae


End file.
